


This Must Be The Place

by perilous_circumstance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adrian Pucey is a little shit, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Broken Draco Malfoy, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is a Good Friend, Minor Daphne Greengrass/Theodore Nott, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley, Orphanage, Orphans, Post-War, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Supportive Narcissa Black Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2020-11-28 02:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilous_circumstance/pseuds/perilous_circumstance
Summary: Six years after the war: Hermione runs an orphanage, Draco is a drunk and everything they know about the world is shifting on its axis.The only way to keep the orphanage from being sold out from under her is to convince a former Death Eater to grow up. How hard could it possibly be?(Dramione)





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> And so begins my newest WIP! This will most likely turn out to be about ten chapters and so far I have five drafted. Update scheduled will hopefully remain weekly, but life is life so we'll see!
> 
> My only beta is Grammarly on this one, so all mistakes are my own. Take pity on me.
> 
> Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns it all. I just play in her sandbox.

_Home is where I want to be_  
_Pick me up and turn me around_  
_I feel numb, born with a weak heart_  
_I guess I must be having fun_

_This Must Be The Place, Talking Heads_

_~_

Narcissa Malfoy stepped through the Floo flames, using her clutch bag to dust at her satin pencil skirt. As the verdant glow dissipated from around her, she inhaled sharply and revelled in the long-familiar scents of wood polish, ancient stone and rose water. She was pleased that the house-elves had continued her tradition of permeating her favourite scent throughout the Manor, even if she hadn’t stepped foot in her home in almost six years. Lovely, loyal creatures. Maybe there was something to be said for this newfangled attitude of respect and freedom, if this was the result.

She let her gaze sweep over the formal sitting room that housed the main Floo connection fireplace, taking in the rich velvet upholstery of the settees and wing-back chairs. The ancestral portraits on the walls all watched excitedly, no doubt ecstatic to have the Malfoy matriarch back within the Manor walls.

A small movement to her right caught her eye and she swung her gaze to the vaulted passage that passed into the vestibule. Framed in the doorway was a rangy, hard-eyed man with a shock of almost-white hair falling into his eyes. She smiled broadly at her son, opening her arms to him and delighting in the shift of his shoulders as he restrained himself from running to her. 

“Draco, darling, come give your mother a hug.”

Several long-legged strides later and he hugged her, a quick squeeze around her shoulders before he stepped back and regarded her. She mentally catalogued the dark circles under his eyes, the greyish tint to his pale skin and the palpable feeling of exhaustion that hung on every sharp contour of his form.

“Welcome home, Mother,” he drawled, sweeping a long arm towards the nearest sofa. 

She smiled at him, patting his cheek as she slid past, and sank into the plush velvet. Toeing off her pumps, she propped her feet on the gilded coffee table and grinned. How Lucius had hated when she did this. A mark of poor breeding, he had called it. She had been so careful back then to erase all the casual quirks of a life with two energetic sisters and doting parents, moulding herself into the perfect Pureblood hostess and wife. Now six years on her own, far away from anyone who knew anything about her, and all those quirks had come back as if they had never left.

Draco folded himself into the chair across from her, hooking one leg over the other and rubbing at his face with the heel of his palm. 

“You look tired,” she said, her voice conversational as she picked at a piece of lint on her skirt. She could see him narrow his eyes at her from under her lashes.

“That’s because I am.”

“No need for me to ask why,” she continued, lifting an exquisitely sculpted eyebrow at him. “The gossip rags have kept me well abreast of your nighttime...activities.”

“Vultures, the lot of them,” he grumbled, tipping his head back onto the edge of the chair and glaring sulkily at the ceiling.

“Really Draco, what do you expect? It isn’t as if you are discreet.”

“It’s none of their damned business.”

“I’m not going to fight with you,” she admonished, her voice smooth as she watched him. “I’ve been back for all of two minutes and I find I’m rather tired myself.”

“The Portkey from France too strenuous? Most activity you’ve seen in six years?”

Her silence made him raise his head and he flinched at her cold look. Shrugging lightly, he grimaced. “Sorry, Mother.”

She felt the gulf between them like a wound, unsure how to navigate these new waters. Their communication over the past six years had been mainly by owl, with sporadic visits once his travel restrictions had been lifted three years ago. She hadn’t even come home when he had been released from Azkaban a year after the war; she had not been in a good place back then, but that was no excuse.

“You will not insinuate that I did nothing in France but lie about like a useless heiress, Draco Malfoy,” she reprimanded, her voice as hard as steel. “You know very well that I devoted my time to fundraising for worthy causes and kept myself busy.”

“I know, Mother. I am sorry,” he sighed, massaging his temples with his fingers. “I just wish you would understand that what I do is also keeping me busy.”

She laughed, the sound a sharp crack in the stillness of the room. “Drinking yourself into a stupor and sleeping with any witch with a warm pulse isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I told you to occupy yourself with something when I left.”

“Yes well, you left didn’t you?” His voice whipped across the space separating them, making it her turn to blanch. “What I do with my time is no longer your concern.”

The coldness in his voice made her flinch, her eyes cutting to his face. His handsome features were twisted in a dramatic scowl. She sighed, closing her eyes and wishing fervently for the patience to deal with this insufferable man-child she had birthed.

“You and your time will always be my concern, Draco,” she said, her tone warm. “But really, I don’t want to argue. I’m excited to be home.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She watched him silently, her eyes tracking down the long length of his body as it lounged against the chair. She felt a hitch near her heart as she thought about the boy he had once been.

“Did you bring that list I asked for?”

He straightened in his chair, reaching into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and pulling out a rolled parchment. Leaning forward, he offered it to her. She took it from him and unfurled it, letting her eyes track down the neatly transcribed text.

“Thinking of continuing your fundraising activities here in England?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, never taking her eyes from the parchment. “And it looks as if Malfoy Enterprises gives generously to a good variety of worthy causes.”

“Yes, well, I think you will find that most of those are court-mandated as part of my sentencing,” Draco drawled, his eyes back on the ceiling.

“Be that as it may, they are still worthy causes,” she said, tapping her finger lightly on the parchment. “Like this one; who can find fault with donating to a home for war orphans?”

He grunted, shielding his eyes with his hands. Narcissa rolled her eyes and scanned the rest of the scroll, before rolling it up and tapping it lightly on her thigh.

“What do you know of it?”

“Other than that it’s a home for scrawny brats and is run by the resident Muggleborn Princess of the Golden Trio? Nothing.”

“Oh! Miss Granger runs the home? How delightful,” Narcissa said, a smile blooming across her aristocratic features. “It must be a very orderly and well-run establishment, then.”

“She probably nags them all to death.”

“You would do well to pay attention to Miss Granger, Draco,” she admonished. “That is a witch who keeps herself busy.”

“Something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate my attention, Mother,” he drawled, still covering his eyes with a limp hand. “Being that she was tortured right over there.”

He waved a hand towards the far end of the drawing-room and Narcissa let her gaze settle on the patch of stone floor beside the fireplace. A dark memory slid into focus and she shook it off, refusing to give it a toehold within her mind.

“Yes, I think that will do very nicely,” she mused, watching her son. “I will offer my fundraising services to the...what was it, oh yes: The Remus Lupin Home for War Orphans.”

She could have sworn she heard him curse under his breath and when she asked him to repeat himself, he straightened and glared at her.

“I said bugger that,” he growled, waving away her affronted sniff. “Bunch of skinny, saucer-eyed waifs with their hands out.”

“Draco darling, the war was over six years ago,” she laughed. “I’m sure they’ve been fed well in the meantime. We’ve been giving quite generously, they can definitely afford food.”

He grunted and she rolled her eyes.

“Besides, many of those orphans are the children of people we knew once.”

“People we knew once?” His voice hitched an octave and she noticed that a tremor shook through his hands as he clenched them in his lap. “Is that how we refer to them now?”

She didn’t answer and he dragged a trembling hand through his hair.

“Death Eaters, Mother,” he barked, his eyes bright and wild. “They are the children of Death Eaters. My former compatriots.”

“They are just children, Draco.”

“Their parents made their choices,” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Do the children deserve to suffer for them?”

“Bit late to ask yourself that question, isn’t it?”

She sucked in a breath at the clipped question, flinching at the rage roiling beneath his measured tone. He grimaced, waving an apologetic hand towards her. She grit her teeth and willed her eyes not to water. 

“I find myself wanting to help, Draco,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving his face. “We...your father and I made those same choices at one time. I have been gone so long...but now I am home and I find myself needing to help.”

He regarded her for a silent moment, his gaze unreadable, before nodding. His sharp, patrician features looked blurred behind a mask of exhaustion and alcohol, his normally incandescent eyes dulled with a haze of long-untended pain. A memory of him as a small boy, his face tipped up to her and his pudgy little hands grasping her skirt flashed across her consciousness and she blinked. 

As he gave a heavy, defeated sigh, Narcissa felt a knot slide into her throat and she wondered how long before she could escape to her chambers and cry herself to sleep.

//

Hermione set the packet of paperwork down on the desk in front of her and rubbed furiously at her eyes, willing the knot of anxiety behind her temples to lessen. She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled, visualizing the stress leaving her body in one, sustained rush. She tracked her breaths for a moment, centring herself around the push and pull of her lungs, before opening her eyes to the bright mid-afternoon sunshine. The sound of childish laughter filtered in through the opened glass-paned doors that led into the back garden. Susan must have opened the windows of the schoolroom on the floor above.

Hermione listened for a moment, unable to stop herself from smiling fondly at the sounds. It made the tension fade from her shoulders and she turned her attention back to the paperwork in front of her. She dragged her finger across the top parchment, smiling softly at the word _ Hogwarts _ splashed audaciously in curled calligraphy across the top. Memories rushed through her, of wool robes and striped ties, the smell of the library and the certain sharp bitterness of Madam Pomfrey’s potions.

She still could not quite believe that, next month, she would have two charges leaving for Hogwarts. When she had created Lupin Home in those early days of grief and pain and anger after the War, she could not have imagined any of those haunted-eyed children ever reaching the age to attend school. They had been brought by Aurors to her doorstep; found in the rubble of homes, in locked away hidey-holes, wandering alone in the forest. All of them came bearing scars of some sort, be they physical or emotional. In those first months, it was all she could do to keep them alive and communicating. Each day was a struggle and each night they closed their eyes in sleep felt like a small victory.

And here they all were, six years later. A handful had been adopted, to her great joy, by wonderful Wizarding families. But there were still ten of them under the roof of The Remus Lupin Home for War Orphans. Ten children from both sides, from families who supported the Light and the Dark. And it was her greatest triumph, the only accolade she was proud to boast, that they all lived as brothers and sisters and treated Hermione as their mother-figure. 

She smiled to herself as she dipped her quill in the ink-pot and wrote ‘Benjamin Porterfield, third-year’ and ‘Olivia MacDonald, first-year’ in her neat script at the top of the page. The two eldest orphans had come to Lupin Home within weeks of each other, immediately after the war. Both sets of parents had been killed in the fighting; Ben’s parents as supporters of Voldemort and Olivia’s as Aurors. Neither had any extended family willing to take them in, so they had been brought to Lupin Home, one of several orphanages scattered across the country that had opened to fulfil this new and urgent need. Ben had come first, just days after Hermione had opened their doors. 

She remembered him as he had been then; a scrawny, terrified seven-year-old with a tear-stained face and furious eyes. They had found him cowering behind a tapestry in the family home; whoever had been left to watch him had been long gone. He had fought like a hell-cat, kicking and scratching the poor Aurors in the department waiting area. 

Ben hadn’t been the last orphaned child to cry himself to sleep on the upholstered benches of the Auror Department. The problem multiplied and Kingsley had approached her, his dark face strained with worry, to ask if she could come up with a solution.

“You’re the Brightest of us all, Hermione,” his deep voice had rumbled as his eyes tracked the tears sliding down the latest orphan’s cheeks. “What should we do?”

Orphanages had been the obvious answer, but she had assumed the task of running them would be delegated to people who actually knew something about children. She had spearheaded the effort to gather funding and create plans. When Kingsley had asked her to take charge of the London orphanage, she had felt something tug inside her chest. Hermione knew she was lost the minute Ben’s little arms had wrapped around her neck, his hands fisted in her curls. She couldn’t leave the children.

The Death Eater trials had been running at full tilt that Fall; sentencing and reparations were all anyone could talk about. For those who were lucky enough to escape Azkaban, the Ministry levelled hefty fines as recompense. Much of the money went to the rebuilding efforts and Auror pensions, but some of it went to the care of war orphans. And that’s how Hermione Granger found herself in charge of a clutch of frightened, traumatized children and the new tenant of a building owned by the Malfoy family.

She dipped her quill back in the ink-pot and moved to the next line of the form. The entire building was a perfect confection of 18th-century London townhouse, with beautifully appointed rooms and tasteful, comfortable decor. She had to give credit to Malfoy Enterprises; they had been so desperate to repair their image in the years after the War, that any request was approved, any renovation finished with extreme haste. She couldn’t help letting her gaze wander across her sun-drenched office; the high ceiling with its wedding-cake plasterwork, the pale yellow striped wallpaper and cream wainscoting, the immense glass-paned doors that opened onto a sunny back garden terrace. She glanced at a pink velvet sofa tucked against a far wall and grinned at the small child curled against one of its arms. 

His blonde ringlets fell across a wide, smooth forehead and one pudgy arm extended behind him, his small fist opening and closing with each breath. She felt her affection for him rise within her chest, swamping through her veins as she watched him sleep. 

Footsteps at the terrace door made her swing her gaze around and she grinned at the small girl-child framed in the open doorway. Also blond, with looping curls that hung in perfect ringlets down her back, she was a dainty child, with ruddy, freckled skin and large blue eyes. She padded into Hermione’s office, her feet bare and a well-worn book tucked under her arm.

“There he is,” the girl said, her eyes cutting disdainfully to the sleeping figure of her brother. “We were all wondering where he’d gone off to.”

Hermione smiled indulgently, glancing back at the boy. “He crept in here an hour or so ago and promptly fell asleep, the little dear.”

“Little dear, my foot,” the girl scoffed. “He took my quill this morning and drew Firebolts across every page of my maths work.”

“Sounds very much like a five-year-old, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That’s no excuse. I don’t act like a seven-year-old, so why should he have to act his age?”

Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned by this logic. This little creature always seem able to do that, render her completely speechless. She wasn’t sure how she managed it.

“Marigold Elizabeth Greengrass, you know perfectly well you have talents your brother does not have at this time of his life,” Hermione admonished. “Must I remind you what _ you _ were like at that age?”

“I would rather you didn’t,” the girl responded, wrinkling her small nose in distaste. 

Hermione chuckled, rolling the parchment in front of her and placing it in the ‘To Be Owled’ canister at the end of her desk. She pushed her chair back and regarded the girl, her eyes dancing. “Why aren’t you with the other children, Mari?”

“Ms. Bones let me go early because the others were doing their maths and the younger ones their reading comprehension,” Marigold said, crossing the room to perch on the chair in front of Hermione’s desk. “I finished my maths last week and everyone knows I don’t need help with reading comprehension.” She laid her book in her lap. “So I took my book into the garden.”

Hermione smiled indulgently and nodded, struck once again by how much this child reminded her of herself as a girl. “What are you reading now?”

“A rather dry account of the War,” Mari said, holding up the book. “I borrowed it from Benjamin, he brought it back from Hogwarts last term.” When Hermione didn’t respond, she set the book back onto her lap and cocked her head. “Will you tell me about the war?”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, feeling the familiar fluttering of panic begin behind her ribs. She forced it down, flexing her fingers on her thighs. She had this conversation with Benjamin two years ago, on his first holiday home from Hogwarts. She had expected to have it again with Olivia this Christmas; she was not prepared to have it with a precocious seven-year-old, with her five-year-old brother sleeping behind them.

“Where on earth have you heard about the war, Mari? Other than in the book you swiped from Benjamin.”

“Oh, everyone talks about it,” the child said, waving a small hand to encompass everyone. “Just not in ways they think children notice. But I notice.”

Hermione slumped back into her chair, rubbing at her forehead with shaking fingers. “Of course you do,” she groaned. “Merlin defend me from swotty seven-year-olds.”

“Uncle Ron says I am just like you were when he met you,” Marigold said primly, her eyes never leaving Hermione. “Why don’t you want to talk about the war?”

“Because it was a very painful time,” Hermione hedged. “What do you know about it?”

“I know that it was the good guys against Voldemort, who wanted to get rid of anyone who isn’t Pureblood. I know that there was a battle at Hogwarts and Voldemort was killed. Is it true Uncle Harry killed him?”

Hermione tipped her head back against her chair and willed herself to stay calm. How the hell was she supposed to explain this to a child? If it had been any of the other smaller children in the Home, she would prevaricate; but she knew that would never go over well with this particular child.

“Yes, it’s true,” she said softly, straightening in her chair. “Harry battled Voldemort and destroyed him.”

“Is it true Uncle Harry was The Chosen One?”

Hermione chuckled softly, shifting in her seat. “Don’t ever let him hear you call him that, he hates it,” she said. “But yes, it’s true.”

Mari’s brows furrowed and she looked decidedly unimpressed. “But Uncle Harry is so..._ normal _.”

Hermione laughed outright at that. “He has worked very hard to be normal. After spending most of his childhood as someone special, he felt like he had earned it.”

“Is it true he would have died to save everyone?”

The humour drained away from her and Hermione blinked slowly, her breath stuttering softly in her chest. “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s also true.”

Mari sat quietly for a moment, thinking over all that Hermione had confirmed. The birds in the trees outside continued to sing and the sudden shouts of happy children filtered down from the classroom above. _ Susan’s class must be done, _ Hermione thought.

“I wish my parents had fought on the right side,” Mari said, her voice soft.

“Oh, darling,” Hermione breathed, reaching a hand across her desk and laying her palm up for Mari to take. Her small fingers wrapped around her own and Hermione squeezed them gently. “Not everything is black and white, especially not war. Your parents thought they were on the right side.”

“I wish I could remember them.”

“I know you do, Mari,” Hermione said, keeping a firm grip on the girl’s hand. “Maybe someday we can find someone who knew them to tell us some stories about them. Stories about their lives that don’t have anything to do with Voldemort or war.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Like what their favourite ice cream was, or if they liked Quidditch.”

“Ugh, I’m sure they didn’t like Quidditch, it’s such a bore,” Mari groaned, slipping her hand away from Hermione’s.

Hermione laughed, settling back into her chair. The sound of shouting children much closer than the floor above cut through her laughter and she swung her gaze to the door of her office as it opened. Susan Bones slipped in, her face turned to the hallway behind her as she laughed and waved at a clutch of running children as they raced past towards the back garden.

“You lot keep it down!” Susan shouted and she laughed as a chorus of “Yes, Miss Bones!” sing-songed back as they burst out into the sunshine.

“Goodness, they’re all in top spirits today! Must be this glorious weather,” she chuckled as she shut the door behind her. 

Hermione grinned at her former classmate and friend, motioning to one of the chairs pulled up to her desk. Susan dropped into it, making an exaggerated display of her weariness. She smiled at Mari and winked, laughing gaily when Mari grinned back at her. 

Susan had been with Lupin Home since the beginning, working as Hermione’s assistant and teaching the underage wizarding coursework in preparation for Hogwarts. Not for the first time, Hermione wondered what on earth she would do if it wasn’t for Susan.

The noise of the children in the garden made the small boy on the pink settee stir fitfully. Hermione watched as he uncurled himself and rubbed at his eyes. His curls here matted against his forehead and his cheeks were a delicious rosy shade. _ He really is such a gorgeous child _, Hermione thought.

“‘Mione?” 

“Here, Henry,” she said, holding out an arm towards him. She watched as he slid down from his makeshift bed and padded across the office. He ignored his sister and Susan, heading straight to Hermione and clambering into her lap. He curled himself against her, sticking a small thumb into his mouth.

Hermione smiled softly at the warm weight of him in her lap, running her fingers through his curls. “Good nap, love?” she asked, her voice soft. He nodded, never removing his thumb. Across the desk, Mari scoffed and rolled her eyes. 

“He is such a baby.”

Henry, his pride wounded, sat up straight and popped his thumb from his mouth. “Am not!”

“Are too, you little thumbsucker!”

Susan laughed, poking a finger at Mari. “I remember _ someone _ at five who used to suck her thumb and drag her ratty quilt behind her wherever she went.”

Mari turned her nose up, her gaze dripping with disdain. “That is completely different.”

Hermione and Susan laughed as Marigold slid from her chair and walked out into the garden, her head held high. 

“Oh, Merlin, we’re going to have our hands full with that one,” Hermione laughed, her arms tightening around the small boy in her lap as she grinned across the desk at Susan. “That pureblood pride must be bred into the DNA.”

Susan straightened and her expression changed from laughing to somewhat serious. “Shit, Hermione, I forgot,” she said, wincing as she threw an apologetic glance towards Henry. She regarded Hermione over the desk, her mouth twisting with uncertainty.

“There’s a visitor for you at the Floo,” she said, her voice wavering slightly. “Mimi caught me as I was coming down and asked if I could fetch you.”

“You’re starting to make me worry, Susan,” Hermione chuckled, but the laughter faded when she saw how Susan’s hands twisted in her lap. A sudden shock of apprehension swamped her chest and she inadvertently tightened her hold on Henry. “Who is it?” 

“You’d best come and see for yourself,” Susan sighed, holding up a hand to forestall Hermione’s protest. “I’m hoping if I don’t tell you, I’ll end up being wrong and it was all a terrible daydream.”

~

It was only years of hard-fought self-discipline that kept Hermione, as she strode into the large sitting room, from turning on her heel and running away. Instead, she felt her eyes widen in surprise and she had to grip the back of a chair as she levelled her gaze on Narcissa Malfoy. The older witch stood before the wide hearth, clad in tasteful cream robes, her platinum hair pulled away from her face in a classic french twist. She looked every inch the Pureblood matriarch. Hermione thanked all the Gods and Merlin for whatever had made her pick out the tailored black sheath dress that morning. Paired with her black patent flats, she knew it fit her well and looked much more expensive than it actually was.

“Ah Miss Granger, there you are,” the older witch said, her voice a measured cadence. “I was hoping to have a bit of your time this afternoon.”

Hermione blinked slowly, her mind buzzing with possibilities and reasons. What on earth was she doing here? She wanted to scream at her, push her back into the Floo and demand at wand-point that she never return. Instead, she smiled politely and motioned towards the sofa. Rounding the chair, she folded herself into it and watched as Narcissa sat gracefully across from her. Glancing back, Hermione realized that Susan had disappeared. The traitor!

“Mimi,” Hermione said, her eyes snapping to the petite house-elf who immediately popped into view at her elbow. “Would you please bring us some tea and biscuits?”

“Yes, Miss Hermione, right away!” The little elf disappeared and Hermione felt a surge of satisfaction as she noticed Narcissa’s confused glance.

“I confess, Miss Granger, to be surprised at your use of house-elves.”

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione drawled, crossing her ankles and smoothing out her dress. She took the moment to calm her nerves, gathering her confidence around her like a cloak. She refused to let the Malfoy matriarch intimidate her. “Mimi is a free elf and is paid a living wage.” As Narcissa nodded, Hermione couldn’t help a small, vindictive smile from blooming. “And besides, people often outgrow the radical views of their youth once they gain some maturity and appreciation for...nuance.”

She felt a thrill as Narcissa stiffened slightly at the implication. The older witch nodded her head distractedly as Mimi returned with tea, and they were served in silence. Hermione took a sip of her tea, waiting for the other woman to state her reasons for coming to the orphanage.

“I have been living in France since the War,” Narcissa began, setting her teacup and saucer onto the table beside the sofa before folding her hands demurely in her lap. She watched Hermione with wide, curious eyes. “In the past six years, I have busied myself with fundraising for various worthy causes in France, raising funds and holding galas, creating donation funds for charities of all sorts. Now that I’ve decided to return home, I find that I do not want to give that part of my life up. I would like to continue in much the same vein here in England.”

“I assume you mean for Lupin Home.”

“Yes, of course. I would like to volunteer myself to fundraise for the orphanage.”

“Why?”

Narcissa blinked at her, seemingly at a loss for a moment. She collected herself and smiled softly at Hermione. “I enjoy it. I’m very good at it.”

“Is that all?”

“I want something worthwhile to occupy my time,” she said, taking a biscuit from the tray Mimi had set before them. “Something that might lessen the stain on the family name.” She took a dainty bite and smiled faintly as she chewed. “Goodness knows Draco can’t be bothered.”

“Yes, I’ve read the stories about his escapades in the Prophet,” Hermione said, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “He has certainly led a...colorful life since the War.”

A faint blush bloomed high on Narcissa’s cheekbones and her teacup rattled against the saucer as she brought it to her lips. “He has had a difficult time acclimating to life since his release from Azkaban,” Narcissa said softly. “I do not agree with everything Draco does, but he is my son and I love him.”

“I’m sure pointing out that he has been out of Azkaban for four years wouldn’t help,” Hermione said, her expression thoughtful. “But it remains the truth. What does your son think about your sudden interest to involve yourself with charities run by Mudbloods?”

Narcissa stilled, her knuckles white from the tight grip on her teacup. Hermione waited for her to compose herself and watched as the other woman took a careful sip. The tension in the room was so thick she could practically taste it, and for some reason, Hermione found herself very interested in Narcissa’s answer.

“My son doesn’t show much interest in anything other than firewhiskey and women, Miss Granger,” she said, her words quiet. “Our relationship is...strained, for lack of a better word. I have been away so long and he has been alone with his troubles. He will not interfere.”

“I don’t mean to pry, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said, her compassionate nature overriding her dislike of the Malfoy family. This woman was obviously hurting, as any mother would, over her son’s behaviour. “I just want to make sure that your son won’t come barging into the Home ranting about blood status in front of the children.”

Narcissa laughed softly, her fingers plucking at her skirt. “I don’t think we have to worry about that,” she chuckled sadly. “Draco doesn’t get worked up about much of anything these days.” Her shoulders slumped minutely and she seemed to collapse in on herself before she pulled herself upright, her expression shifting until it was as clear as glass. “I assure you, Miss Granger, that my intentions are good and there will be no trouble for the Lupin Home from the Malfoy family.”

Hermione watched the older witch for several moments, mulling her words over in her mind. Something instinctively told her that Narcissa was telling the truth; that there was no nefarious purpose here. If she was honest with herself, all of her previous ire for this woman had faded away when she had lied for Harry. All that remained was a wariness that perhaps time and proximity would lessen.

“All right, then, Mrs. Malfoy,” she said, her head cocked slightly as she peered across the rim of her teacup. “What do you have in mind?”

Narcissa’s face lit up and Hermione watched as a large smile slid across her patrician features. “Oh, I am delighted you are considering accepting my offer, Miss Granger! Absolutely delighted,” she laughed, shifting excitedly in her seat. Her girlish excitement seemed to wash away all vestiges of her previous pain. “I had thought perhaps we could throw a gala, a big, beautiful, ridiculous New Years Eve Gala with all proceeds and donations going towards Lupin Home.”

Hermione blinked, processing the witch’s words. “A gala?” Her voice sounded high-pitched and worried so she cleared her throat hastily. 

“Oh yes, my dear,” Narcissa trilled, her eyes bright with a feverish glee. “I am rather good at galas. We can hold it at the Manor and it will be the social event of the year.”

Hermione pushed down the spike of fear at the mention of the Manor. Her gaze swung to the door as Susan stepped in, her eyes wide as she regarded the two seated witches. It was very apparent that she had been standing on the other side of the door listening, but neither Narcissa nor Hermione said a word. Narcissa’s mouth quirked upward and she turned her gaze back to Hermione.

“I am interested in hearing more about this idea, Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione said, her voice hesitant. “Would you like to stay for dinner and meet the children?”

Narcissa agreed enthusiastically and Hermione excused herself and Susan to go round up the children. As they stepped into the hallway, she shut the door quietly behind her and leaned against it, suddenly boneless. Susan slumped against the wall across from her, wide eyes trained on Hermione’s face.

“Merlin’s balls, Hermione,” Susan breathed. “Did you just agree to let _ Narcissa Malfoy _ throw us a gala?”

“I think I did,” Hermione whispered.

“In Merlin’s name, _ why? _”

_ The question of the hour _, Hermione thought. Why did she suddenly want to take Narcissa up on her offer? She knew that part of it must be because she inexplicably felt sorry for the older witch; married to a monster like Lucius Malfoy, dragged along in support of Voldemort, almost losing her only child...and then having her belief system completely turned upside down in the aftermath of the War. It would make any witch absolutely mad with grief. But the Narcissa Malfoy who sat in their Floo parlour wasn’t mad and didn’t seem to be weighed down by grief. She was hurting, because her son was a wastrel, but she wasn’t prostrate. There was an iron strength to the witch that Hermione could admire.

She shrugged, the movement pushing her away from the door as she straightened, squaring her shoulders. “We can always use the money. And I admit, I’m curious.”

Susan laughed, pushing herself away from the wall. “Gods help us all, Hermione Granger is curious about something. Why am I suddenly very worried?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of the kudos & comments! i greatly appreciate it and am still blown away that y'all read my work lol.
> 
> no beta except grammarly, so please don't hurt me.
> 
> disclaimer: jk rowling owns it all, i just like to play in her sand box.

Draco accepted the tumblers of firewhiskey from Tom and turned away from the bar, squeezing between the crowd of late-evening revellers. Once through the crush of bodies, he set one glass to his lips and drained it, wiping his mouth with his forearm. He tossed the empty glass at a nearby table and moved away through the crowd. 

Sliding into his chair, he took a sip from the remaining glass and set it before him. Across the table, Theo watched him silently. The dark-haired wizard’s own glass was half empty and had been that way for the past half hour. 

“Not feeling up to it tonight, are you Nott?” he sneered, waving a hand towards Theo’s drink. 

“Just not looking to get absolutely blasted, you fucking prat,” Theo answered, his voice level as he continued to watch Draco. His expression shifted from inscrutable to slightly disapproving. “Not all of us live the sort of life where we can get sodden on a Wednesday night.”

Draco shrugged, taking another drink. “Your loss, mate.”

Theo drummed his fingers on the scarred tabletop and shifted his weight in his chair. Draco set his drink down and waited, knowing that his friend was about to start a lecture. His shoulders tightened and he wrapped his hands around the glass. Theo noticed the tension and smirked, his eyes bright in the smokey haze of the Leaky Cauldron.

“I’m not going to have a go at you, Malfoy,” he drawled, taking a slow and deliberate drink of his firewhiskey. “I think we’ve both had enough of that. Merlin knows it doesn’t make any sort of difference. You’re going to drink yourself into an early grave with or without my whinging.”

Draco felt the tension drain from his shoulders and he took another drink. “Thanks for that.”

“But I will say this,” Theo said, stabbing a finger towards him. “I think you’re a fucking idiot. I think you’re wasting your talents and your life. Your mother doesn’t deserve this, your friends don’t deserve it,  _ you _ don’t deserve it. You’re going to get some sort of disease, either from the drink or the women. Something awful, that makes your dick fall off. And you know what? I can’t stop you. I’ve tried to stop you for four Gods be-damned years, and it’s got us both nowhere.” He slammed his palm onto the tabletop and Draco jumped. “So I’m done. I’m fucking done.”

Draco took a long gulp of his drink and set it down. “That was a very nice not-lecture.”

“Fuck off,” Theo spat, his hands curling into fists.

“What are you two prats fighting about this time?” The booming voice made both Draco and Theo swing their heads around as a large, solid-wall of a man emerged from the crowd. He held a tumbler of firewhiskey in one hand and a pint in the other and there was what looked like the remains of another pint splashed down the front of his jumper.

“Pucey,” Theo spat, his eyes narrowing. “Just the sort of devil to encourage this arsehole’s behaviour.” He waved a slender hand towards Draco.

Adrian Pucey chuckled, setting his drinks down as he slid into a chair. Reaching across the table, he slapped a meaty hand against Theo’s back.

“Nice to see you too, Nott,” he crowed, his eyes wrinkled with merriment. “Don’t see you around as much these days, mate.”

“Some of us have fucking jobs and families,  _ mate _ ,” Theo said, his nose wrinkling on the last word. “Not all of us want to piss away our family fortunes on drink and tail.”

“I have a job too, mate,” Pucey drawled, his eyes bright with laughter. “Nice respectable one in the Ministry and everything. And Malfoy here’s got coffers the size of battleships, so I don’t know what you’re going on about. Our money is fine.”

Draco laughed, his eyes sliding from Pucey to Theo. “Yeah Nott, you don’t have to worry about the Malfoy fortune,” he chuckled, taking another drink. “Even after all those cursed reparations we’re being forced to pay, there’s still more Galleons than I know what to do with. Might as well have some fun.”

“That’s what I don’t understand, Draco,” Theo said, shifting in his seat so that his back was to Pucey. “Malfoy Enterprises has been paying those reparations for six bloody years and has cleaned almost every dark stain from their reputations. It’s become associated with charitable donations and bloody war orphans!” He took a deep breath, running a hand through his dark hair. “You could be back in society in a fucking heartbeat if you wanted to be.”

Draco pointed at his oldest friend, his smile sardonic. “And there it is, mate,” he drawled. “I don’t want to be.”

Theo opened his mouth to answer, but Pucey was faster. “Why would you? It’s a fucking shame a good Pureblood business like M.E. has been drug through the mud with all of these reparations,” he spat, his expression twisting as if he smelled something off. “Donations to help Mudbloods and blood traitors.”

Theo had stiffened in his seat, his eyes trained on Draco as Pucey talked. Draco felt the blood rising to his cheeks and he took a large swig of his drink to keep himself from shifting under Theo’s gaze. The War and Azkaban had done much to burn his childish ideas of blood status from him, but he was always uncomfortable when it was brought up these days. 

“Mother’s got it into her head to fundraise for one of those charitable reparations we’ve been paying since my sentencing,” he said, trying to change the subject. “She’s throwing some sort of gala at the Manor for that bloody home for war orphans.”

“Fucking travesty, that place is,” Pucey spat.

Theo rolled his eyes, his fingers clutched tightly around his glass. “I don’t understand what the problem is,” he said, his brow furrowed. “I donate to Lupin Home. We knew the parents of some of the children there.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” Pucey roared, slamming his glass down. The beer sloshed over the side and onto the table, but he didn’t seem to notice. His face had gone crimson, his eyes wild. “There are pureblood children at that place; pureblood children mixing with the children of blood-traitors.”

“Merlin, get a bloody grip, Pucey,” Theo scoffed. “I bet there are kids there that we’re related to. I’m going to donate because of that, at least.”

“How can you be so calm about it?” Pucey was raving now, his large arms windmilling and his voice hitching into a roar. “Kids we’re related to? And you’re okay with them being raised by the Queen Mudblood herself?”

Theo stilled, his expression blank. Across from him, Draco shifted in his chair. The people around them had gone quiet, and he could feel their condemning looks settling on the back of his head. The silence at their table stretched on, and Draco looked up to find Theo watching him as if he was waiting for something.

After a moment, Theo drained his glass and set it down. “There’s my answer then,” he said to Draco, ignoring Pucey. “Everything in the War, two years in Azkaban, four years in a changed world...and you’re still ok with that sort of thinking.” He rose from his chair, his gaze locked on Draco as he spoke. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but you know, I am. I really am.”

Draco watched as Theo brushed at his trousers and straightened. “What do you want from me, Nott?”

“Truthfully, Malfoy?” He reached across and gripped Draco’s shoulder, his fingers squeezing him once. “I don’t fucking know. But not this.” He released his grip and made to turn away towards the Floo. “Let me know when you decide to grow the fuck up.”

As Theo moved away from the table, Draco felt as if he had been hollowed out, as if every space beneath his skin was as empty as the glass in front of him. He watched as Theo stepped into the Floo and disappeared.

“Never mind that prat, Malfoy,” Pucey said, slapping him on the back as he rose from the table. “I’m going to go get us another round, be right back.”

Draco was left alone at the table, not sure what had just happened. In the four years since his release from Azkaban, Theo had been a constant annoyance. He was always wanting Draco to change, to grow, to acknowledge. It had driven him crazy, had made him lash out at his oldest friend on more than one occasion. Theo would act disgusted with him, but he had always stuck around. Until tonight. Draco supposed that everyone had a limit.

_ Except me, _ he thought.  _ What’s my limit? _ Obviously it wasn’t blood purity. It hadn’t been the first time that someone he knew had spoken about the old beliefs of his childhood, and he had to admit that he had never challenged them. He would change the subject or escape, but he had never chastised or fought. Even though his own views on the subject had changed drastically; he was as Pureblooded as they came, a product of a thousand years of selective breeding, and he was a fucking mess. Mudbloods were out there living productive, meaningful lives while he was usually lying in a pile of his own sick.

_ Mudblood _ . The word always conjured a vision of riotous curls damp with blood and tears, brown eyes frantic from pain. Hermione Granger stretched out on his drawing-room floor, his crazed Aunt Bella looming over her. Hurting her. He had stood next to the fireplace and he had been rooted to the spot. She screamed, her voice ragged from the pain and fear. A pale hand beat a tattoo against the slate stone floor as Bella carved letters into her milky-pale skin.

“Wotcher, Malfoy,” Pucey said, his booming voice snapping Draco out of the memory. “Look who I found!”

Draco drug a trembling hand across his face, trying to wipe away the vestiges of Granger’s screams. He swung his gaze towards Pucey and took in the two women flanking him. Both of them were dressed in cheap scraps of fabric, their large breasts swinging beneath heavily painted faces. One of them could barely stand, Pucey’s large arm around her middle all that was holding her up. The other one clung to Pucey’s other arm, but her eyes were trained on Draco with a look of intense interest. 

“These lovely ladies need an escort to Knockturn Alley,” Pucey said, his grin lascivious as he looked down the blouse of the one he had clutched to him. “I told them me and my mate would be happy to see them there safely, isn’t that right Malfoy?”

Draco blinked, momentarily out of sorts. Despite his lifestyle, he didn’t make it a habit of chasing women below his social station. But every wizard needed to blow off steam once in a while. Pucey was grinning at him expectantly, his hands gripping tightly at the women beside him.  _ Thank goodness for protective spells, or else Nott would be right and my dick might just fall off,  _ he thought as he smiled lazily and slid out from his chair. Extending an arm to the woman, he led her out into the night.

xx

If someone had told Hermione six years ago that she would be familiar with the waiting area of Malfoy Enterprises, she probably would have told them to go straight to St. Mungo’s for a mental health check. But here she was, sitting in her favourite chair and staring up at the large portrait of Lucius, Narcissa and Draco. The three portrait-sitters glared down at her, their haughty expressions unabated despite being under strict instructions to treat all guests, regardless of blood-status, with courtesy. They hadn’t called her Mudblood since her first visit soon after opening Lupin Home, but she could tell it took some effort.

Portrait-Narcissa was especially nasty to her, always looking at Hermione as if she was a particularly awful stain on her immaculate dress-robes. If the board of trustees hadn’t threatened to silence the portrait for good, she was sure portrait-Narcissa would be just as vocal as Great Aunt Walburga over in Grimmauld Place. This was all especially amusing to Hermione, since for just about a month now the real Narcissa had become a regular presence at Lupin Home. She might even call her a friend.

Voices rose behind the door that led into the corporate offices and Hermione placed the copy of Witch Weekly she had been reading on the table, preparing herself to stand.

“A pleasure, as usual,” she said, letting her smile slide into a smirk. “I’ll be sure to forward your greetings to Narcissa when she comes to dinner again this week.” She paused a moment to savour the spluttering indignation and then rose from her seat, brushing at her plum pencil skirt. She straightened as the door opened and froze.

A tall, lean man in an impeccably tailored black suit was coming through the door, his body half turned into the office beyond as he shook the hand of someone behind him. He said something to his companion, but the words were lost in the sudden roar in Hermione’s ears. She steeled herself, gathering her courage around her like a cloak.

The man turned forward, took two steps away from the door and stopped, his grey eyes widening imperceptibly as he noticed her. The door behind him closed and the click of the latch seemed to jolt him from a daze. He shook himself slightly and the familiar smirk slid across his patrician features.

“If it isn’t the Brightest Witch of The Age,” Draco Malfoy sneered, the annoying accolade that Hermione hated above all others sounding like the worst insult in his smooth voice. “So kind of you to grace Malfoy Enterprises with your illustrious presence.”

She blinked at him, feeling slightly off-balance. This wasn’t at all how she thought this reunion would go. She had seen him from afar at various gatherings with Pansy over the years, but had never spoken to him. While he wasn’t being friendly, he also wasn’t shouting obscenities and calling her a Mudblood. She quirked an eyebrow at him, placing a hand on her hip and regarding him with thinly veiled amusement. This she could work with.

“How kind of you to say, Malfoy,” she said, her voice honey-sweet. “It’s always so nice to meet a fan.” Her smile widened at the faint blush that stained his pale cheeks, his eyes darkening with anger. “I’m here to chat with Rupert about Lupin Home.”

“Ah yes, I’ve been hearing a lot about your little  _ home _ lately,” Draco drawled. “Mother can’t stop raving about those poor pathetic little war orphans and the indomitable swot who houses them.”

Hermione couldn’t help her eyes rolling. “I would say it’s you who is pathetic, taking your frustration out on orphans, but I know it wouldn’t do any good,” she sighed, her expression full of faux-concern. “I’m surprised you were even able to take time out of your busy schedule of drinking and whoring to come check on the family business.”

“I see you’ve been reading the gossip rag articles about me, Granger,” he countered, his smirk widening. “It’s gratifying to know that even a frigid bitch like you can’t keep your eyes off my escapades.”

She ignored that, letting her gaze slide to the portrait on the wall. The sitters were watching them intently, all three of them leaning slightly forward in their chairs. The portrait Narcissa wore a haughty expression that made Hermione grin.

“You know Malfoy, I’ve really enjoyed getting to know your mother,” she said, her eyes bright with mischief. “We’ve found that we have a lot in common and her help has been invaluable.”

“Mother always did have a soft spot for wounded animals,” he scoffed, waving an elegant hand. 

Hermione stiffened, her body going rigid at his words. There was a ringing in her ears for a moment as she processed what he had said, and she was surprised to find how much it hurt. She had expected blood-status prejudice from this man, had been surprised when he hadn’t started with it when he had first seen her. But now that he had confirmed he still regarded those like her as animals, she felt as if there was some betrayal here. She briefly wondered why.

“I can’t believe you, Malfoy,” she hissed, her cheeks red with her anger. “Six bloody years since the war and you still can’t let it go.” She drug a hand through her curls, pulling them away from her face as she glared at him. “When are you Pureblooded prats going to get it through your heads: you lost. Muggleborns are here to stay.”

“What the fuck are you rambling about, Granger?” he spat, his eyes widening. “I didn’t say anything --” He cut himself off, realizing what he had said. The colour flooded his cheeks again and he cleared his throat, suddenly looking slightly guilty.

“Look, I didn’t mean...that is to say,” he stumbled, his hands shoving into the pockets of his suit trousers. “Fuck!”

He sucked in a shuddering breath, unsure how to explain to this infuriating woman that he hadn't meant what she thought he had meant. She was staring at him with a furious, wounded gaze and it was making his stomach flip somersaults. 

He growled and shrugged. “You know what? Fuck it,” he spat. “You’re going to believe what you want to believe about me.” He turned away from her, his shoulders stiff. “Goodbye, Granger. Enjoy the Malfoy money while it lasts.”

He strode out of the waiting area, his bright blond hair catching the light as he moved away from her. As he slid through the outer doors and was gone, Hermione gasped in a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. What had just happened?

And what did he mean,  _ while it lasts? _

//

Rupert Fawley, chairman of the board of trustees of Malfoy Enterprises, stood from behind his desk and offered his hand as she slid into the comfortable wing-back chair. She shook it and then sat, tugging at her robes.

“Miss Granger, a pleasure to see you as always. Thank you for being able to meet with me so quickly -- we’ve reached a decision on the plumbing issue we have been discussing.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Mr. Fawley,” she said, giving him a genuine smile. Despite her history with the Malfoy family, the men who ran the family corporation had always treated her with polite respect. “I do hope the board has decided to replace the plumbing, it really is rather terrible. We’ve had another round of repairs recently and it’s been so disruptive for the children, and I’m sure it is becoming hellishly expensive for M.E.”

“When I received your letter, I pulled all of our plumbing maintenance records and you are correct, the cost has been exorbitant,” he said, flipping through a stack of parchment on his desk. “A replacement of the charms and pipe would be the most cost-effective way forward. The board has approved your request.”

“Oh that is wonderful news, Mr. Fawley,” she sighed, sinking back into the chair. She wasn’t sure why she always worried, M.E. had been very good to them these last six years.

“We took a look at all of the repair costs and it just doesn’t make sense to continue pouring money into an aged system, much better to replace it with the latest magic and technology. Not to mention the increase it will provide in resale value.”

“I’m sorry, did you say resale value?”

“Hmm?” He had been shuffling through his papers when she asked and he looked up at her for a moment. “Oh, yes, for when the building will be sold next year.”

The room suddenly felt very close and very warm. She blinked at him, wondering what that sudden roaring sound could possibly be. He was saying something, what was he saying?

“As I’m sure you are aware, Mr. Malfoy’s sentencing restrictions end on January 31 of next year. Malfoy Enterprises will no longer be required to contribute financially to the Lupin Home and the building, while a beautiful piece of property, is not really what we want in our portfolio. So we have been actively working to secure a buyer.”

The roaring began again, so loud within her skull that she had to restrain herself from covering her ears with her palms like a child. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath and willed herself calm.

“Mr. Fawley, when did Malfoy Enterprises plan on informing me of this?” Her voice was tight and measured, her fingers gripping the chair arms.

“Oh, you were to receive an owl this week, if I remember correctly,” he said, his attention back on the paperwork. “It should still arrive, with all of the information.”

Hermione sat statue-still for a moment, her heart beating erratically within her chest. She almost gave in to the howling rage that spiked within her veins, but instead, she rose from her chair and straightened her skirt. 

“Then I will await your owl,” she said. “Good day, Mr. Fawley.”

As she swept from the office, her long strides carrying her through the waiting area, Hermione wondered if that had been a world speed-record in her shift from friendly indifference to burning, palpable hatred.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i don't own any of it! wish i owned draco though, duh.

“Hermione dear, please sit down. You’re going to wear a rut into that indecently expensive wool carpet.”

Narcissa worriedly watched as the younger witch paced, small hands gripped into tight fists at her sides and riotous curls framing her flushed face. A shimmering, hazy halo surrounded her petite form and Narcissa knew that must be her magic become visible with her rage.

In the month that Narcissa had been volunteering for Lupin Home, she had discovered a great deal of respect for the Muggle-born witch currently stomping a path into her 19th-century Turkish rug. She found the younger witch to be incredibly driven, possessing a singular loyalty to those she loved and a determination to protect them at all costs. It rather reminded Narcissa of herself, if she was honest. 

The planning for the gala had begun very nicely and was moving along at a rapid pace. She was excited by the prospect of it being the pinnacle of Wizarding society holiday events. She had submitted the event to the gossip magazines & Daily Prophet’s calenders, and already it was the talk of London. Hermione, Susan and herself had been running on a cocktail of excitement and anticipation; but now everything had the potential to come crashing down around them.

“Is it true, Narcissa?” Hermione’s voice was a thin, tortured thread in the cavernous space of the Manor sitting-room. Narcissa’s gaze snapped to the younger witch’s face and she stilled, taken aback by the look of pure pain flashing across her soft features.

“Oh, my dear child,” she said, wanting nothing more than to stand and give Hermione a hug. “I don’t know the specifics, but it is true that Draco’s sentencing ends at the end of January. And the rest?” She shrugged her thin shoulders, watching as Hermione stopped pacing and began to move jerkily towards a chair. “It sounds like something Malfoy Enterprises would do. They only care about profit, dear.”

“Profit at the expense of children’s lives and happiness?” Hermione wailed, as she slid into the overstuffed wing-back. “Profit on the backs of their trauma?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Narcissa said, making an apologetic sound.

“If word gets out about the sale, their hard-fought good reputation has the potential of being completely erased. Don’t they care about that?”

Narcissa regarded her with a level stare, her hands folded in her lap. “Hermione, you must understand: Malfoy Enterprises care about nothing before profit,” she said, her lips twisting apologetically. “Just after the War, profit was contingent on cultivating a good reputation. But now?” She waved an elegant hand, her expression rueful. “The world has changed once again. Memories are short and people are desperate to return to normalcy. Malfoy Enterprises know this and they know they can weather any bad press short of joining with rogue Death Eaters.”

“Could they weather bad press brought by the Golden Trio?” Hermione’s mouth twisted; she had always hated that moniker, but she wasn’t above using her war-heroine status if it meant helping the children.

“Possibly,” Narcissa shrugged. “Possibly not. But if you involve your Gryffindor friends in that way, the press storm would be immense. Are you prepared for that? Are the children?”

She watched as Hermione dropped her face into her palms. 

“Is there anything I can do to stop this?”

“Unless you can convince the majority of that board to find their humanity before the end of January, the only other way is for Draco to step into his role as head of the Malfoy family. Doing so would place him above the board when it came to Malfoy Enterprises.”

Hermione’s head snapped up and her mouth opened, but Narcissa held up an elegant hand.

“But that is about as far-fetched as the first option,” she said, her eyes kind as they watched Hermione’s hands twist in her lap. “My son lives a debauched, indulgent lifestyle and is loathe to leave it behind for the doldrums of familial responsibility.”

“But there must be some way to get him to realize how important this is,” Hermione rasped, her voice rough with worry. “He isn’t totally heartless.”

“Oh how I wish he could hear you speak so about him,” Narcissa chuckled, reaching to pat Hermione’s knee affectionately. “He would be shocked; that was almost a compliment.”

Hermione grimaced, tugging a hand through her curls. “I’ve seen him with Pansy & Ron’s kids, with Teddy Lupin. Anyone who has such a rapport with children can’t be heartless.”

Narcissa smiled sadly, her eyes flicking to a portrait of Draco as a teenager against the far wall. Portrait-Draco strutted about inside the frame, his entire person the epitome of a well-bred, dreadfully snobbish, Pureblood prince. 

“No, he is not heartless,” she mused, still watching the portrait. “And that is part of the problem.”

“I don’t follow.”

“He feels too much, Hermione,” Narcissa said, her gaze swinging back to meet the younger witch’s eyes. “The War, you see. And his father.” She waved her hands ineffectually before her, trying to encompass years of trauma, betrayal and pain in one quick gesture. “He’s not a bad person, just lazy and hurting. I don’t think he is ready to walk away from his freewheeling life, not just yet.”

“Not even to help children? Some of them children of his former colleagues?”

“No, not even to help them.”

Hermione’s face dropped back into her palms and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Narcissa could see the rise and fall of the younger witch’s shoulders as she fought to compose herself. They sat quietly for several moments, the only soft sound the distant tick-tock of a clock somewhere in the Manor. The silence dragged on until Narcissa began to wonder if she would have to get up and sit next to the girl, try to shake some sense into her. Now was not the time to break down.

But just as she was about to push herself away from the settee, Hermione straightened in her seat and dropped her hands away from her face. Her expression was hard, no trace of the anguish anywhere to be seen. Narcissa felt a sudden swoop of nervousness deep in her belly as she took in the set jaw and determined eyes. She had heard about the famed stubbornness and bravery of the Brightest Witch of Her Age..to see it manifest in her young friend was somewhat uncanny.

“You say he won’t help, but that he isn’t heartless,” Hermione rasped, her voice raw with emotion but threaded with steel. When Narcissa nodded her assent, her expression turned hard. 

“Then I will just have to find a way to convince him.”

//

“I can’t believe you wouldn’t let us stay in Flourish & Blotts longer, Hermione!”

Marigold’s voice was rapidly approaching a whine and Hermione had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. As they stepped out onto the cobblestones of Diagon Alley, her stomach grumbled in protest and she grimaced. Her bones ached, her head was swimming and she was half-starved. She cast a baleful glance at her three young charges and took a deep breath.

“Merlin, Marigold, give it a rest,” she murmured, stroking her palm down the girl’s curls. She let her fingers rest on the back of the girl’s neck, lightly pressing into the skin. Mari tipped her face upwards and Hermione smiled affectionately down at her. “We’re all exhausted and could use some fortification. How about dinner at the Leaky?”

Ben and Olivia crowed with excitement from behind their armloads of school supplies and the small group set off down the winding lane towards the pub. Hermione walked behind the children, smiling indulgently at their innocent pleasure as they manoeuvred through the back to school shopping crowds. It was so much more fun this year, having two children to shop for. Ben took his role as eldest very seriously and had diligently coached Olivia in what would and would not do for her first year at Hogwarts. Hermione had let him take the lead, only interjecting when she felt a budget needed to be set. It had been a long, but successful, day.

She let her gaze fall on Marigold as the young girl scampered after the older children, her blonde curls flying behind her like a flaxen flag. Her attendance on this trip was a given; it was well known in Lupin Home that Mari very rarely let Hermione out of her sight. The reason why wasn’t apparent; she was a relatively well-adjusted child who could play and entertain herself independently, she didn’t show any other symptoms of attachment issues or worry Hermione or Susan in any way. But she was hyper-aware of Hermione’s location at all times, preferring to follow along rather than be left behind. It had been decided early that it wasn’t worth the hassle of trying to break her of this habit, and so she went. 

Hermione couldn’t help smiling as she felt the familiar spike of affection as she watched Mari pause to glance into a shop window. The golden light of the mid-evening sun caught her hair, giving an otherworldly glow to the small girl. Her face was tipped upwards, her eyes wide as she took in the shop display full of gorgeous new silks destined to be formal robes. As Hermione approached, Mari turned and gave her a wide smile. As she rushed to catch up with Ben and Olivia, Hermione felt a squeeze around her heart.  _ Merlin, I love that child, _ she thought.

She loved all of her charges, with an intensity and devotion she hadn’t ever expected before taking on the running of Lupin Home. But there was something about Marigold and Henry Greengrass that had caught at her heart and wouldn’t let go. Adoption was the goal for all of the children, but the thought of some other family getting to keep Mari and Henry forever made her heart clench painfully. She couldn’t even consider it.

“Come on, you lot!” Ben’s voice rang out from ahead, his tall frame jumping as he tried to catch a glimpse of the other children and Hermione. “I’m starving!”

Mari ran back and caught at Hermione’s hand, tugging her towards the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. Olivia and Ben waited for them, their dark heads tipped together as they read some of the fliers pinned to the pub noticeboard. Hermione reached out and ruffled Ben’s hair, laughing as he shrank away in horror. Thirteen was a fun age.

The small group ducked inside, pausing as their eyes acclimated to the dim light of the pub. The children were vibrating with excitement from the unexpected treat of a meal not in their familiar dining room. Hermione ushered them further into the pub, raising a hand in greeting to Tom where he stood behind the bar. He waved back, signalling that he would send over menus once they picked a table.

“There’s a table, ‘Mione,” Olivia chirped, waving one of her packages towards a long, scarred table near a window. At Hermione’s nod, she began to make her way towards it, the rest of them trailing behind.

Hermione set her shopping bags in the empty chair beside her and lowered herself into her seat, sighing as she took the weight off her aching feet. She watched as the children situated themselves and laughed as menus popped onto the table in front of each chair, making the children jump. Glancing back towards the bar to send Tom a wave in thanks, she froze.

From this vantage point, she could see all the way down the long bar. The line of barstools was empty, except for two at the far end. Those two were occupied by a couple, one of whom had a shock of bright, pale hair. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she took in Draco Malfoy, his tall frame folded against the bar-stool, his shoulders leaning in close to the woman at his side. The woman is slender and elegant, her dark blue robes draped sinuously along supple curves. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a chignon and Hermione could see the sweep of a high cheekbone.

The sudden rush of anger took Hermione off-guard. It burned through her and she had to grip the edge of the table to ground herself. Seeing him here, after all of her owls had gone unanswered, made her want to scream in frustration. Her eyes flicked to the oblivious children around her, their excited chatter warring with the buzz of fury in her mind. How dare he show his face when he had the power to help these children but refused? She closed her eyes, willing herself to calm.

Across the pub, Malfoy slid out from his barstool and gestured to a nearby table. The woman unfolded herself in one elegant movement, her robes rustling gently around her long legs as Malfoy escorted her to a chair. As he pulled the chair out and helped her to sit, he took his time ogling her backside with a leer. Hermione felt the bile rise in her throat.

Narcissa had warned her, had told her that all he cared about was firewhiskey and women. It was stupid of her to get angry when all he was doing was confirming what she already knew about him. But she couldn’t help it; she felt disappointed, and it confused her.

She straightened in her chair, determined to place Malfoy far from her mind. Turning her attention back to the children, she laughed as they continued to jabber back and forth, their small fingers pointing at things on the menu. Not for the first time, she wondered what Lupin Home would be like with two less children once Ben and Olivia left for Hogwarts. The hierarchy of the orphanage would change, the next two eldest becoming the de-facto leaders. Alliances and deals would be made, rules would be drawn up. She found the entire process fascinating, preferring to let the children create their own system and world as long as no one was hurt or left out.

The sudden thought that all of that would be disrupted once the building sale made her rock back in her chair. If the home sold in February, Ben and Olivia would come home at the end of term to somewhere that was strange and unfamiliar. How would they ever find a new building without the funds from Malfoy Enterprises? She danced around the answer, trying not to let it enter her mind. She was afraid of it. Because it was simple: they couldn’t. There would be no new building large enough to house them all.

As Tom ambled over to take their order, she let her gaze drift back to Malfoy. He could change all of this in a moment. But how to convince a man like that to help? What could be offered that would entice him? As she half-heartedly listened to the children give their orders and she pointed out what she wanted, her brain lazily rolled that question about. As Tom gathered their menus and turned back to the bar, a new thought popped suddenly into her consciousness.

What if it wasn’t about what she could offer him, but about what she could take away? What did Draco Malfoy enjoy, so much that the loss of it would be enough leverage to get him to acquiesce to her demands?

As the round of butterbeers descended onto the table, Hermione felt a plan forming. She swung her gaze back to the children. If this was to work, they would need to know about the impending sale. Ben and Olivia were old enough to understand; they would be upset, but they could handle it. She looked at Marigold, so small in the large wooden chair beside her. She was a precocious seven-year-old, mature for her age in intelligence and manner. Hermione wanted to say that she would take the news in stride, especially if there was a plan to thwart the sale. 

Heaving a sigh, she set her pint down on the table and turned her body towards the children. They stilled, familiar with her moods and mannerisms enough to realize that she was about to tell them something important.

“There is something I need to tell you three,” she said, her voice measured. She caught Ben’s quick glance at Marigold and smiled, touched by his protective instinct. “It’s bad news, but I have an idea. And I’m going to need your help.”

//

“Hello, Malfoy,” Hermione chirped, sliding her body into the empty seat at their table. She smiled winningly at him, her eyes bright with feigned friendliness. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Granger,” he growled, his expression tight. Across from him, his date regarded Hermione with bland curiosity. “I would say it’s a pleasure but we all know that would be a lie.”

Hermione laughed, scooting her chair closer to him. She shot a smile towards the woman beside her, reaching out a hand.

“Hermione Granger,” she said, squeezing the proferred fingers. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

“I know who you are,” the woman said, her smile warm. “It’s an honour to meet you, Miss Granger. My name is Samantha Harwood.”

“Harwood? Any relation to Nelson Harwood in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

“Oh yes, he’s my father! I didn’t realize you were acquainted.”

“I had the pleasure of working with him on several cases back when I was in Auror training after the war,” Hermione said, her smile widening. The woman was half-turned towards her, her expression open and warm. This was going exactly as planned. “He was a dream, always had the exact legal research we needed before we even knew we needed it.”

“That sounds like Daddy,” Samantha laughed. “He has always been very thorough in his work.”

“Will you give him my regards? I hope he is doing well these days.

“Oh I will, he will be pleased you remembered him,” Samantha said. “You’re running the home for war orphans these days, is that correct? I think I remember reading about that in the Prophet once or twice.”

“That’s right,” Hermione said, waving towards the children where they sat across the pub. They waved back and she was pleased when Samantha waved in response. “I’ve got several of my charges with me today. We’ve just finished doing our Hogwarts shopping for the two eldest.”

“Oh, how darling are they? Draco, look at how lovely they are,” Samantha cooed, her hand reaching to pat Malfoy’s arm. He flinched, his eyes cutting to the children and back, where they settled malevolently on Hermione.

“Lovely,” he deadpanned, his voice heavy with disdain. He didn’t notice the tight frown Samantha threw him, his attention completely centred on Hermione’s growing smile.

“You know, Malfoy,” she mused, her face tipped towards him. “I was actually hoping to run into you today. Have you not been receiving my owls?”

“I did, but your little problems with your establishment are none of my concern,” he drawled, his eyes narrowing. “The Malfoy Enterprise board is who you want to contact.” He took a drink from his firewhiskey and set it down with some force. “Now, do you mind? We’re on a date.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Hermione simpered, her eyes flicking apologetically to Samantha, who was smiling at her. “I do hate to be a nuisance, it’s just that I’m so worried about the children.” She waved at her charges again and watched as Mari slid from her seat and padded over, tucking herself under Hermione’s arm. “The sale will happen in the dead of winter, you know. It will be terribly cold and I’m just not sure what we’re going to do with all of these poor, defenceless little orphans once the building is sold.”

“Draco, what does she mean?” Samantha was looking between Hermione and Malfoy, her eyes large with worry.

“Nothing, nothing,” he said, his voice honeyed as he squeezed her hand. “Just a little bit of business Malfoy Enterprises has with the home.”

“M.E. owns the building we reside in,” Hermione explained helpfully. “And they have decided to sell it at the end of January.”

“Sell it? But where will you go?” Malfoy’s date was looking at Mari with a growing sense of concern.

“We have no idea,” Hermione said, her voice soft with regret. “It’s all come about so suddenly and with absolutely no warning.”

“Draco! How can you think of selling these poor children’s home?” Samantha asked, her voice shrill with indignation.

“Samantha, darling, I’m not selling it,” Malfoy placated, his brow furrowed. “It’s Malfoy Enterprises!”

“But you can stop it,” Hermione said.

“Please sir,” Marigold piped up, her voice angelic. She took a few steps towards Malfoy, her blue eyes overly large in her dainty face. “Please don’t sell our home.”

“How can you even consider turning these poor angels out in the cold?” Samantha was furious now, her elegant features flushed and her hands gripping her purse. When Malfoy didn’t answer, she rose from her chair in one fluid movement. She glared down her nose at him. “I think we are done here.”

She opened her purse and pulled out a card, handing it to Hermione. “Please owl me with charitable details, Miss Granger. I would love to donate to your worthy institution and help in any way I can. I sincerely hope you are able to stop this abominable sale.”

She turned on her heel, her robes whipping around her body as she flounced from the pub. Malfoy threw back his chair and made chase, as Hermione sat back with a satisfied grin.

“Did that go well?” Marigold’s sweet voice was tinged with a gleeful deviousness that made Hermione laugh. She pulled the girl to her, hugging her gently.

“Yes, Mari,” she said, her eyes following the retreating blonde. “I think that went very well, indeed.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: all of it belongs to jk rowling, i just pretend.

As she did every time she visited Grimmauld Place, Hermione was struck by the changes in the old house since the war. Once a dusty ancient pile complete with dark rooms and mouldy tapestries, it was now filled with light and an eclectic mix of contemporary and antique furnishings. Harry and Ginny had set upon the old place like a couple possessed. Harry was determined to clean away the years of sorrow and Pureblood mania from the property; Ginny took on the task of general contractor, decorator and housekeeper with glee.

On her days off from playing for the Holyhead Harpies, she had supervised the magical renovations; widening windows and doorways, knocking down walls and moving fireplaces. All of the walls received a tasteful coat of creamy white paint, the floors were refinished to a rich lustre and the entire place was cleaned within an inch of its life. By the end of the renovations, the old house was practically unrecognizable from the place Hermione, Ron and Harry had known during the war.

Now it was a true family home, echoing with the sounds of James’ childish giggles. His toys were strewn across most surfaces, mixed with the detritus of Quidditch equipment and Auror tools. The entire property had the homey feeling of a place full of  _ life _ , and Hermione truly loved to visit. 

Sunday brunch, usually a Burrow affair that involved a massive crowd of extended Weasley clan and friends, was broken up among several homes once a month to give Molly a break. Harry and Ginny hosted a small group, usually including Hermione and Ron with his wife Pansy, née Parkinson. Every once in awhile another Weasley sibling and family would also show up, or perhaps a gaggle of Gryffindors or Luna Lovegood. It was Hermione’s favourite Sunday of the month.

Today was a quiet brunch, with just Ron, Pansy, their daughter Rose, little baby Hugo and Hermione, who had brought Marigold and Henry. Sundays were comportment lessons at Lupin Home for the older children and Hermione found it was a good idea to remove Mari and Henry from the premises. They seemed to find the whole concept of comportment incredible hilarious, much to the chagrin of the other children.

As Henry ran shrieking through the room, trailed by James and Rose, Hermione had to laugh. Perhaps comportment wasn’t such a bad lesson to learn after all. She glanced across the room at Harry, perched in his favourite overstuffed armchair. He raised an eyebrow at her, the laughter dancing in his green eyes.

“Tell me again why they’re too young to learn, oh what is it, fancy manners?” Harry chuckled, his eyes darting to where Mari had stalked into view, her eyes sweeping the room before settling on the huddled form of her brother and his shadows. She let out a war-whoop, darting forward and screeching in indignation as the younger children scattered. “At this point, I think it’s a damn fine idea and would you please take my little heathen with you?”

“Well, it is Narcissa teaching the lesson,” Hermione mused, grinning as she watched the children disappear into the next room. “If anyone can keep them in line, it would be her.”

Harry shuddered dramatically, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Merlin help us, I can’t even begin to imagine how terrifying those lessons are.”

“Hermione’s right, Potter,” Pansy said as she walked into the room, levitating a tea tray beside her. Ginny trailed behind her, carrying a biscuit tin. They sat their respective burdens down on the coffee table and took seats. Pansy folded herself into the sofa beside Ron, her smile trained on Hermione at the other end. “There is no one better to teach manners to a bunch of unruly children than Narcissa Malfoy.”

Hermione smiled in agreement, leaning forward to pour herself some tea. The sounds of children laughing in the other room had everyone smiling for a moment until the piercing shriek of a wounded animal made them all wince. 

“Gods, that’s her new thing,” Pansy moaned, as Ron gave a groan and tipped his head back onto the sofa in frustration. “I think she’s discovered new octaves at this point. Maybe we can send her along with Hermione’s brood so Narcissa can whip some sense into her.”

Ron laughed, throwing an arm around Pansy’s shoulders. When she didn’t join him, he lifted his head and peered at her. “Oh Merlin, woman, you’re serious,” he said, his eyes wide. “I’d sooner send her to apprentice with Filch than let Narcissa Malfoy teach her  _ manners. _ ”

Pansy swatted at him, opening her mouth to respond but was cut off by what sounded like a herd of elephants. The children ran into the room, their limbs flailing and their voices raised in excited shouts. They stood next to the coffee table, hopping about and shouting until Harry pointed his wand at the ceiling. Sparks exploded overhead, raining down on several awestruck, silent children.

“All right you lot, what’s the fuss about,” he asked, settling back into his chair. 

Mari shook herself, shrugging on her role as eldest with ease. “Can we please play in the garden, Uncle Harry?”

“Oh Merlin, yes please,” he moaned with exaggerated relief, waving a hand towards the back of the house. “Get out, the lot of you.”

They giggled and turned as one, scattering towards the kitchen. Hermione reached out and snagged Henry as he passed, pulling him to her.

“Hold on a minute, little man,” she said, pushing his curls away from his face. “Let me get your jumper.”

Henry hopped from one foot to the other, his impatience suffusing every limb as Hermione pulled her beaded bag onto her lap and rummaged inside. She pulled out what Harry called a Molly Weasley Special, and tugged it over Henry’s head. As she pulled his little arms through the sleeves, she leaned forward and kissed him before swatting him towards the door.

As she straightened in her seat, she became aware of everyone’s eyes trained on her face. She furrowed her brows in confusion and Ginny chuckled, her smile warm.

“Have you given any more thought to petitioning the Ministry to adopt them, Hermione?”

“The petition is all ready to go, I finished it last week as a matter of fact,” she said, setting her bag back on the table beside her. She twisted her now empty hands in her lap, looking back worriedly at her friend. “I just need references and then I can file it.”

“You know we’ll give references, ‘Mione,” Harry said gently, glancing quickly at Ron. “You don’t even have to ask.” 

Ron nodded vigorously, his mouth full of biscuit. Beside him, Pansy smiled.

“And me too,” she said, reaching across her husband to pat Hermione’s knee. “I don’t know what it would be worth to the Ministry, but you have it.”

“We all will,” Ginny said, her voice matter of fact. “And you know Mum and Dad will too. And George. How many do you need?”

“I’ll need ten,” Hermione said, her voice wavering. “I don’t know what we would do without you.”

“Oh come off it, ‘Mione,” Ron laughed, swallowing his biscuit. “You’d get along perfectly fine without us. It’s the rest of us without you that worries me. We’d be a complete mess.”

Everyone laughed at that and Hermione surreptitiously wiped at her eyes. She felt the fear rising in her throat and she swallowed, her eyes finding Ginny’s. The redhead leaned forward in her chair, her hand unconsciously lifting towards her friends.

“What have you heard?”

Hermione sucked in a breath, shaking herself slightly as she shifted in her seat. She could feel the others’ eyes on her as she composed herself, but couldn’t help a tear from tracking down her cheek. She swiped at it angrily, feeling her temper rise.

“I was informed by several caseworkers last week that my chances of having my petition granted are slim,” she said, her words clipped with anger and sadness. “Mostly because I’m unmarried. They want the children adopted into traditional family units.”

There were several sounds of disbelief and anger throughout the room, but it was Harry that spoke first.

“That’s bloody ridiculous,” he growled, his eyes flashing behind his glasses. “No one could give those kids a better home than you could, Hermione. Surely the Ministry realizes that?”

She shrugged, her jaw clenched. “They essentially told me that, without a husband, the petition would be denied.”

“Bugger that,” Ron grunted, his hand clenching on the back of the sofa. “We’ll fight it, all of us. They can’t deny their entire fucking ‘Golden Trio,’ can they?”

“Any help you can give would be amazing,” she said, her eyes flicking between her two friends. “But I don’t know if they will listen. The Ministry are traditionalists at heart...look how long it has taken them to shake off the vestiges of Pureblood ideals?”

“We’ll do anything we can, Hermione,” Pansy said, reaching across Ron to squeeze her arm. “Anything we can to help with both the petition and the Malfoy Enterprise sale.”

“Oh Merlin, the bloody sale,” Ginny groaned, dropping back into her chair. “When it rains it pours.”

“Any news,” Ron asked, his face suffused with worry.

She nodded, her eyes falling to her hands as they twisted in her lap. “I heard from Malfoy Enterprises yesterday.” Her breath shuddered in her chest. “The sale will go ahead. They’ve found a buyer.”

Ginny rose from her chair and moved to the sofa, wedging herself in between her brother and Hermione. She threw an arm around her friend and pulled Hermione against her. “When?” she asked, as Hermione’s head dropped against her shoulder.

“Our last day in the house will be January 31.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered, his face growing red with anger. “What does the Ministry say?”

“That they’re terribly sorry for all of us, but they don’t have the funds to see us into a new building. We’re meant to fundraise for ourselves.”

“You’ve got Narcissa’s gala,” Harry said.

“And it will probably bring in a nice sum of money,” she agreed. “But nowhere near what we will need to purchase a building comparable size.” She shuddered, her eyes filling with tears as Ginny hugged her tighter. “Our only chance to keep Lupin Home operating will be to raise enough to put a down payment on a smaller property, with enough set aside to begin mortgage payments. But a smaller house will mean that we will have to send half of the children to live in other orphanages across the country.”

“Split them up?” Pansy cried, her voice indignant.

Hermione nodded and covered her face with her hands. Ginny’s fingers were tracing patterns on her shoulder and she took a moment to steady herself before looking back up at her friends.

“There are strict Ministry regulations about how many children per square foot,” she said, her voice hoarse. “But I don’t know how I could ever choose which children to send away.”

“Have you tried to speak with Malfoy about what Narcissa said?”

“I’ve done everything but send a howler,” she replied. “He avoids me. But I’m working on it.”

“Does ‘working on it’ have anything to do with all of Draco’s dates the last few weeks being ruined by, oh what did he call it,” she turned to Ron and swatted his arm insistently.

“‘Scrawny, saucer-eyed brats with a victim complex’ I think it was,” Ron supplied helpfully.

“Merlin, he’s such a fucking prat,” Harry groaned.

Hermione chuckled, sitting up a bit straighter and wiping her eyes. “Well, I might be using the children to disrupt his life, a bit,” she said, a wide smile blooming across her face.

“A bit? Merlin, Hermione, he’s at his wit’s end,” Pansy laughed, leaning forward to meet Hermione’s eyes. “When he was over for lunch the other day he couldn’t stop moaning it.” She grinned, her eyebrows raised. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed. It’s a rather Slytherin move.”

“He wouldn’t even discuss the matter,” Hermione shrugged. “Nothing I offered could even tempt him. So I thought I would try another tactic. About what I can take away.”

Pansy guffawed, her hand slapping Ron’s thigh as she laughed. “It’s a smart move,” she chuckled, her eyes bright with mischief. “Draco doesn’t like being thwarted in anything. I should think you’ll be hearing from him soon.”

//

Draco leaned over the bar, raising an elegant hand to catch Tom’s attention. With the night he was having, copious amounts of firewhiskey was needed as soon as possible. He sank back down onto his barstool, swirling the remains of his drink. Gritting his teeth, he silently cursed Hermione Granger and her gaggle of sad-eyed orphans. How was a man meant to get laid by women who didn’t require several rounds of disease checking spells if every single date was disrupted by war-heroines and sobbing children?

He gulped down the last bit of firewhiskey and held up the empty glass as Tom turned his way. Slamming the glass back onto the bartop, he glowered at it. Damn that bushy-haired menace. Damn that hovel of an orphanage. Damn Malfoy Enterprises. Damn his cowardice.

A large hand slapped down on his shoulder and he grunted, swinging his gaze to his right. Adrian Pucey grinned back at him as he heaved his body into the stool beside Draco.

“Evening, Malfoy,” the other man said, pointing at the firewhiskey Tom had just sat on the bar. “ Having a good night?”

Draco didn’t answer, choosing to take a large drink of firewhiskey instead. Pucey chuckled at his silence.

“Saw the Mudblood and her brats interfering again,” Pucey said, nodding as Tom delivered his drink. “Still haven’t put a stop to that?”

“Don’t know what you expect me to do, Pucey,” Draco growled, his eyes never leaving his glass. “She a bloody war heroine; it’s not like I can curse her.”

“I don’t know, you could probably think of something,” Pucey said, taking a swig of his drink. “Try to remember some of your old training.”

“Fuck you, Pucey,” Draco spat, pushing his stool away from the bar and gathering himself to stand. The other man’s hand shot out and caught his sleeve, hauling him back into his seat.

“Sorry, mate,” Pucey said, his expression contrite. “Sorry. Sit down.”

Draco grunted again, falling back into his stool and taking another drink. They sat in silence for a moment, the bar-noises swirling around them. Draco wondered, not for the first time, why he allowed Pucey so many liberties with his past. If he thought too hard about it, he supposed it was probably because by this point, Pucey was the only person who would have a drink with him. He had pushed everyone else away.

“Do you know who the older boy is?”

Draco blinked, his gaze swinging to the man beside him. “What?”

“The older boy with Granger. Do you know who he is?”

Draco shook his head. “No idea.”

“His name is Ben Porterfield,” Pucey said, taking a drink. “I’ve been looking into that pisshole Granger runs. Doing some investigating.”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because it’s disgusting that there are Pureblood children being taught and house by a Mudblood,” Pucey spat, his eyes burning with something that made Draco take a deep drink of his firewhiskey. He knew that look, had seen it in his own father’s eyes too many times to count. He let the burn of the alcohol chase away the memories.

“And what did your research tell you?”

“Ben Porterfield,” Pucey said. “He’s a cousin of mine on my mother’s side.”

Draco shrugged. “We’re Purebloods, Pucey,” he said, his tone bored. “We’re definitely all related in some fashion.”

“It’s a rather close connection,” Pucey said conspiratorially. “One that would be considered a family tie in other circumstances.”

“So, what, you’re going to adopt the kid?” Draco drawled.

“Fuck. Of course not,” Pucey spat. “But I’ve got to do something; a member of my family, being raised by a fucking Mudblood. It’s unheard of!”

“Just leave me out of it,” Draco said, raising his glass to his lips. “I’m more worried about getting Granger off my fucking back so I can finally get laid.”

Pucey slammed his glass down onto the bar, firewhiskey splashing out onto the scarred tabletop. “For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy,” he roared, his eyes wild with a fanatical light. “Is that all you care about? Getting your fucking dick wet when there are Pureblood kids associating with mudbloods and blood traitors?”

Draco shrugged, taking another drink. “The world has changed, Pucey,” he said. “Nothing is what it once was.”

“Bollocks,” Pucey said, his tone murderous. “Mark my words, Malfoy. Something will be done about this.”

Draco raised his hand to catch Tom’s attention as he motioned for another drink. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: sadly i own nothing in the wizarding world.

Draco came around the corner in Flourish and Blotts and stopped, his robes flapping around his legs. Several feet ahead of him, at the end of the aisle, Hermione Granger dusted off the seat of her jeans as she rose from a crouch. A small hand came up and tracked along the books as if she was searching for something. The higher she searched, the more she stretched until she was up on her tip-toes, one arm extended above her head as she tried to reach the stack of books perched precariously on the shelves above her.

He always forgot how small she was until he saw her again in person; her diminutive stature easily eclipsed by her larger than life intelligence. He could hear her cursing under her breath as she hopped inelegantly, her fingertips brushing against the leather spines. He was mildly horrified when he had to repress a soft chuckle, but the sight was humorous. She rocked back onto her heels, huffing a breath at the wayward curls that had fallen into her face.

As she stood there, her gaze trained on the books above her, he stalked quietly down the aisle until he stood behind her. Just when she began to coil her body to begin jumping again, he reached a long arm above her and snagged the stack of books she had been trying to reach. She slammed down onto her feels, her face tipped up to him with an expression of extreme shock.

“Merlin, Malfoy!” She gasped, clutching at her heart with a small hand. “You can’t just creep up on people like that, you sneaky ferret!”

He growled, pushing the books at her with more force than he intended. She grabbed for them as he shoved them into her stomach, rocking back several steps. Eyes wide, she watched him warily.

“Good to know you lot still make light of professors abusing their power over their students,” he said, his voice menacing. “And they let you take charge of children?”

She blinked up at him, her mouth hanging open in shock. He pushed away the familiar feelings of humiliation and fear as she narrowed her eyes. They stood glaring at each other for several moments before Draco let out a frustrated huff of breath, grabbing her forearm and dragging her into a darkened corner between the shelves. He pushed her against the wall, blocking her only escape route with his body.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” She hissed, setting the stack of books she was holding on the ground and drawing her wand. She pointed it at him, but he didn’t flinch. She took a faltering step back, her wand shaking slightly as he crowded her into the darkened corner.

“What’s it going to take, Granger?” His voice was low in the stillness of the bookstore, the only other noises the rumble of customers towards the front of the shop and the late evening street sounds filtering in from the front windows. The sun was setting behind Diagon Alley and the light at the back of the shop was growing dim and flickering, lit by candles in sconces high on the walls.

“What is what going to take,” she retorted, her wand still trained on his chest.

“What is it going to take to get you and your brats to leave me be?” His rage bubbled under the surface of his words, colour blooming high on his cheekbones. He ran a hand through his hair and glowered down at her.

She waited a moment and then lowered her wand, holstering it before crossing her arms over her chest. She regarded him for a moment, her brown eyes frigid in the flickering light. Shadows moved across her face and, as she pushed her curls away from her face, Draco wondered if that incredible amount of hair had ever strangled anyone.

“You know exactly what it’s going to take,” she said, her voice steady.

“Fuck!” He whisper-shouted, digging his hands into the pocket of his robes and half-turning away from her. His breaths were coming fast now, ragged and hot in his chest. He desperately needed a drink, but he couldn’t walk away from his. He needed her to understand.

“Granger, I can’t do what you want me to do,” he said, not looking at her. “I can’t take on my role with Malfoy Enterprises.”

“You  _ won’t _ ,” she hissed. “There’s a difference.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he said, pushing another hand through his hair and hunching his shoulders. “I  _ can’t _ . It’s all I can do to keep myself from drinking that one extra drink that will set me over the edge. To keep myself from drowning in it.”

He blanched, not sure how he had lost so much control that he had admitted to his weakness in front of her. He cut his eyes to her face. She watched him, her expression guarded. 

“Malfoy, what --”

“I’m not a good man, Granger,” he growled, swinging his cold grey gaze fully on her. “I am completely aware that I am a snivelling coward when it comes to taking responsibility for myself and my actions. But that’s my choice. I am not prepared to give up the life I have made for myself.”

“This is no life, Malfoy!” She waved a frantic hand at him, taking in his rumpled robes, high colour and the soft tremors racing through him as he went another minute without firewhiskey. Her voice lowered, her brow furrowing with concern. “You’re killing yourself.”

“Didn’t know you cared,” he mumbled, his eyes trained on the wall behind her head.

“I don’t,” she clipped, wincing as he rocked back slightly at the forcefulness of her denial. “But your mother does. And your friends do.” She sucked in a breath, never letting her eyes leave his face. “And I suppose I do care just enough to want you to pull your head out of your ass and help us. Help the children.”

He snorted, meeting her eyes. “I’m not going to do it, Granger, not even for your little brats,” he growled. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

She took a jerking step forward, her hand twitching over her wand holster. She was livid, the rage radiating off her in shimmering waves. Draco felt a frisson of fear slide down his spine, wondering how long it would take him to reach the front door before she began to inadvertently set off spells.

“I’m not going to stop, Malfoy,” she whispered, her breath ghosting across his neck. The top of her curls barely reached his shoulders, but there was something in this witch that made him want to run. She glared up at him, her hair frizzing around her face. “I’m not going to stop until you do the right thing.”

“That’s just it,” he spat, his fingers clenching into fists. “I won’t do the right thing. I  _ can’t _ .”

“You’re a fucking coward,” she hissed, her brows furrowing. Magic was still sparking on the golden contours of her skin, the air around them hazy with it. 

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” he whispered back. As they glared at each other in silence, Draco felt as if he had just run a marathon. His heart was pounding and he was finding it hard to catch his breath.

“I’ve already told you, I won’t stop,” she said, squaring her shoulders as she peered up at him. 

“Fuck, Granger,” he groaned. “Then you’re pushing me into a corner. All I have left is to make a run for it, I can’t keep living like this. A man has needs.”

She flushed, the colour spreading across her cheeks. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m a man,” he shrugged. “And despite what the Prophet says and I’m sure you believe, I don’t make it a habit of fucking whores. But you’ve made it impossible to get anywhere past the first drink with a bird, so you leave me no choice.”

“What will you do?” 

“I’ll fucking leave, that’s what I’ll do,” he growled, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “I’ll take an extended holiday to one of our properties in France.” His fingers clenched where they gripped her and her small hands snapped up to grip his fingers. He stared down at her, the breath ripping through his chest. 

She glared back up at him, her small frame trembling with anger. Her eyes were ablaze, her cheeks flushed and her hair wild; Draco thought she looked like an avenging angel, all righteous rage and golden skin. Too bad her personality was so far from angelic, it was enough to turn a man right around.

His grip at her shoulders tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh. She winced but continued to stare up at him defiantly. He had the sudden urge to slam her against the wall, to knock her into it until she slid down into a boneless heap. It shocked him so thoroughly that he threw her away from him, stepping back as if he had been burned. 

He huddled against the wall, one hand gripping the shelf beside him as he steadied himself. Through his fringe he could see her gaping at him, her hands fluttering around her shoulders. Her face was shocked, but something else slid over her expression as he watched her, something softer. He was sure it was pity and he wanted to run, wanted to escape from those wide brown eyes.

“I don’t want to leave England, Granger,” he whispered, raking a hand through his hair. “Why can’t you just leave me be?”

//

Draco Malfoy was broken. That was the only explanation. Hermione rubbed at her shoulders where he had gripped her, sure that there would be bruises. She watched the tall blond warily, her chest heaving as she struggled to regain some semblance of calm.

Her mind scanned back over what he had said; would he really leave? If he left England, then all hope of derailing the sale would leave with him. She could call his bluff, but something told her that Malfoy was a desperate man. She felt a tiny bit of guilt take root in her chest, as she contemplated her own role in making him that way.

“Malfoy…,” she trailed off, her voice rough in the stillness. She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to chase you away from England. That’s not what I intended to happen.” She pushed her curls away from her face and watched as he slid his gaze back to her. “But you have to understand how desperate I am. I would do anything for those children.”

He didn’t answer, but continued to watch her with guarded eyes. She sucked in a fortifying breath as the anger leaked away. Her mind was fizzing with possibilities and plans. She gestured towards the wall beside her, waiting as his eyebrow quirked upwards. Sighing, she slid down the wall and sat cross-legged against it. He grunted and stalked around her, slumping against the wall several feet away. His robes billowed out around him and he tucked them around his legs.

“How about we make a deal,” she said, her head cocked slightly as she watched him settle himself. 

“What sort of deal?” He didn’t look up at her as he spoke, his eyes trained on the floor in front of him.

She shrugged, her head tipping back to knock lightly against the wall. She saw him glance up at her in her peripheral vision. “I’m winging this, so bear with me,” she said, her lips twisting in a faint grin. “If you agree to help your mother with her volunteer work at Lupin Home for the next three months, coming with her to the weekly dinners, the lessons she teaches, helping with other projects...if you agree to help plan the New Years fundraising gala, then I will stop sabotaging your dating life.”

He didn’t say anything so she soldiered on. “Three months of helping us,” she said, her eyes flicking to his face. “You get to know the children, you help Susan and I. And at the end of it, if you still don’t want to help us stop the sale, then you can walk away. And I won’t stop you.”

He snorted, his eyebrows raised into his hair. “I always knew you were willfully naive, Granger, but this takes the cake.”

She smiled, her expression open and unguarded. He stilled, his hands clenching in his lap. “I prefer to look at it as optimism, Malfoy,” she said, laughter in her voice. “I told your mother once that I didn’t think you were heartless. I’ve seen you with Rosie and Hugo.” She let her head roll towards him, watching him from under her eyelashes. “Pansy tells me things.”

“I am fully capable of being heartless,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I can make it three months with a bunch of kids, have fun at a big party and then leave.” He chuckled darkly. “And I know myself well enough to say that I won’t even give it a second thought.”

She scrambled up on her knees, her eyes piercing as she watched him. She shifted closer, ignoring the way he went rigid the closer she moved. 

“You talk a big game, Malfoy,” she whispered. “There’s a heart in there somewhere.” Her hand came up and her fingertips touched lightly against his chest. “I know there is.”

They stared at each other for several heartbeats. Hermione was the first to shake herself out of it, her hand lifting away from his chest but remaining outstretched. She let her eyebrows quirk upwards as she watched him, her heart clenching with worry. He had to agree, he just had to.

“What do you say, Malfoy?”

“Three months?”

At her nod, he took a deep breath and let his hand come up to grip hers. The smile bloomed across her face as she shook his hand, her palm warm against his. There was power in the handshake between magical beings and Hermione felt the magic fizz up her veins from the contact. She knew he felt it too, by the way his eyes snapped up to hers.

“I’ll see you at dinner Wednesday night,” she said, laughing softly at his stricken expression.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of your support of this story! and for all of the lovely comments. i appreciate you. <3
> 
> and as always, disclaimer: i do not own one single galleon of the wizarding world.

Draco stepped from the fireplace and into an admittedly well-appointed reception room. Octagonal in shape, the high walls and flagstone floor were a calming cream. Antique furniture was scattered throughout the room, the wood glowing with a gentle lustre born of age and use. Several upholstered sofa’s sat against the wall, piled high with plush pillows and draped with knitted blankets. Framed artwork was positioned on the walls in pleasing groupings and a crystal chandelier winked in the firelight, sending rainbows dancing across the floor. 

Dusting at his trousers, he glanced around, feeling slightly put-out. This elegant space wasn’t at all what he expected to encounter in an orphanage run by a Muggle-born. To be fair, he wasn’t sure exactly what he had been expecting; a toy-strewn bunker with tacky furniture and art? He cast a critical gaze over the environs and sneered at the obvious taste that had been involved in decorating. It was a surprise, and Draco Malfoy did not like surprises.

A clattering sound of feet on the flagstones made his head swing towards the door, his hand instinctively moving to his wand holster. He felt a moment of tightness, his body poised on the brink of _ something _ before a small person tumbled through the doorway and skidded to a stop in front of him. Sucking in a breath to still the racing of his heart, Draco looked down his patrician nose at the small child who was peering up at him.

The boy couldn’t have been more than five, dark-blond curls haloed around a face still baby-round. His head was tipped back and he was watching Draco with liquid dark blue eyes. There was something slightly familiar about the set of his eyes and the quirk of his mouth as he asked, “Are you Mr. Malfoy?” 

“I am,” Draco answered. He watched as the boy jumped from one foot to the other, his small body springing with repressed energy.

“Your mother and ‘Mione said to tell you to come into the dining room when you got here,” the child said, a chubby arm pointing behind him towards the door and, Draco presumed beyond it, the dining room.

Casting a last glance around the surprising reception room, Draco waved an impatient hand towards the boy as he ordered, “Lead on, then.”

The child spun on his heels and ran out of the door, Draco in his wake. They passed into a cosy hall, lined with striped wallpaper and dark wainscotting. A plush Persian runner ran the length, it’s rich colours glowing in the light from the magicked sconces along the wall. The rug dampened the sound of the child’s pounding footsteps as he sprinted towards the far end, pausing to bounce in place as Draco caught up. Once he was close enough, the boy tugged at the handle of a large wooden door and pulled it open. Peeking around, he pointed into the room beyond. 

As Draco moved into the room, he was once again struck by the pleasing appointment of the ancient oak table, ringed with stately chairs. The walls were a dove grey, a calm contrast to the gilt-framed mirrors that flanked an immense carved sideboard. Another chandelier hung low over the table, casting more rainbows. It really was maddening, how tasteful it all was.

“Oh, Draco, you’ve arrived!” Narcissa’s voice trilled through the warm silence. She stood, silhouetted by the warm light of the wall-sconces, next to a brass bar-cart at the far end of the room. She raised her drink to him, the ice-cubes clinking softly against the glass.

As he stalked towards her, he tracked the subtle quirk of an elegant eyebrow as she took in his stormy expression. Stopping at her side, he glowered down at her.

“Make yourself a drink, Draco,” she said, her voice soft and warm. “Hermione has gone to gather the children. Get some firewhiskey in you before she returns; I expect you to be calm and collected tonight.” She shot him a contrite look, her lips twisting slightly. “Merlin knows I shouldn’t be encouraging you to drink, but I can already see the tremors have started.”

Draco pushed down the shame that accompanied her directions, ignoring her words as he moved towards the alcohol. “This is a terrible inconvenience, Mother,” he grumbled. As he deftly poured himself a glass of firewhiskey, he heard her soft laugh.

“Inconvenient? Merlin, Draco, it isn’t as if you have anything important to do these days,” she chuckled, taking a dainty sip of her drink. She levelled her cool grey gaze on him, her expression thoughtful. “What would you be doing if you weren’t here? Half-way to being completely drunk at the Leaky would be my guess.”

He cut her a petulant glance and opened his mouth but she cut him off with a fierce look. “You’ve been offered a chance to change everything, Draco,” she admonished, wagging an elegant finger beneath his nose. “I will be terribly disappointed if you don’t take it.”

The door to the dining room swung open and a raucous gaggle of children exploded into the room, their voices raised and their feet pounding the plush carpeting. Draco took a long drink of firewhiskey, saved from having to tell his mother that he wasn’t sure he was able to change. Narcissa laid a gently hand at his elbow and steered him towards a seat at the table. He stood behind the chair, all of his Pureblood training coming to the surface like muscle-memory as he waited for Narcissa to fold herself into her seat. He continued to stand as Susan Bones entered the room, followed by Granger.

Susan threw a cautious look his way before greeting Narcissa warmly as she took her seat. She was soon immersed in the conversations of the children, her round face crinkled in a warm smile as she laughed at their antics. Draco let his gaze slide to Granger as she made her way around the table, greeting the children. His eyes tracked her as she paused, her hand gentling on small heads and her eyes dancing as they chattered at her. She moved with a fluid grace, like a dancer or a fighter. He rather thought it was probably the latter, because of the War.

Her curls were pulled away from her face in a haphazard bun at the nape of her neck, but pieces had escaped and curled softly around her temples and cheeks. Dressed in a demure blue shift dress and flats, she was the picture of sensible elegance. But Draco could see the hard planes of muscle shifting beneath the softness of her skin. Hermione Granger was still a force to be reckoned with, even this long after the War. He made a note of it, as she rounded the table and pulled back her chair directly across from him.

Her eyes drifted to his face and she stilled for a moment, their gazes locked. He nodded imperceptibly in greeting, his hands gripping the back of his chair. The corner of her lips quirked upwards slightly and he wondered if she was laughing at him. She folded herself into her seat and he finally allowed himself to sit, setting his glass of firewhiskey on the table in front of him.

As the house-elves began to serve them, Narcissa leaned over and laid a hand on his forearm. “She is a beautiful woman, don’t you think?”

“Don’t start, Mother,” he grumbled, his words drowned in his glass as he took a drink. 

She chuckled under her breath. “You watch her, Draco,” she said, her voice soft. “There’s no shame in it. We would all do well to watch Hermione Granger.”

His fingers clenched around his glass and he felt the colour rise to his face. “This is all insanity, you realize that don’t you?” 

She laughed outright, her fingers tightening on his arm. “We lived through the Dark Lord and you think having dinner with a Muggleborn and some children is insane?”

The food was delicious, as only dishes prepared by house-elf magic could be, and the dining room was full of warm conversation. The children chattered amongst themselves, their voices weaving into a tapestry of laughter while the women talked softly about the upcoming gala. On any other evening, in any other setting, a night like this would be a welcome way to spend the evening. But Draco sat silently in his chair, drinking glass after glass of firewhiskey as he sullenly observed the room.

“Ben and Olivia spent the morning addressing the formal invitations to be sent along to the Ministry,” Granger said, her clear voice piercing through the general noise of the room. Draco’s eyes swung towards her as she leaned forward, her head cradled in her palms. Her curls had continued to escape from her bun and were haloing her heart-shaped face. The flickering light from the wall-sconces cast warm shadows across her skin and she looked relaxed and happy. “Just in time, too. They leave for Hogwarts in the morning.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Narcissa leaned forward, her smile widening. “I do miss the excitement of the first of the school year. Are you excited, my dears?”

Beside Granger, a young teenage boy grinned, his excitement palpable. Beside him, a smaller girl-child looked uneasy as the attention swung towards them. Draco recognized them both from Granger’s sabotage missions in the Leakey and elsewhere. He let his gaze fall on the older boy, searching his face for some recognizable features that would show his familial connection to the Puceys.

“It’s your first year, isn’t it dear?” 

The girl sank back into her seat, Narcissa’s question seeming to make her shrink in on herself. She was a bundle of nerves, her eyes over-large in her thin face. She whispered her affirmation under her breath and Narcissa smiled gently, her eyes warm.

“And what House do you think you will be Sorted into?”

The child took a deep breath and straightened a bit in her seat; this at least was a question she thought she could answer. “I’m fairly sure I’ll be in Ravenclaw, Lady Malfoy.”

Narcissa nodded, her eyes shifting to Ben. “And you, young sir? What House are you in?”

“Slytherin, ma’am.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Narcissa exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “A noble House, though I’m sure they are all with merits.”

“I’ll just _ die _ if I get Sorted into Slytherin!” Olivia clapped a hand over her mouth, her expression mortified. She sank back into her chair, hiding her face in her hair. 

Narcissa chuckled as Granger reached around Ben and placed a gentle hand on Olivia’s shoulder. The child took a shuddering breath and then raised her head, her expression contrite. _ That girl has spirit _ , Draco couldn’t help thinking. _ A lesser being would be cowering after saying such a thing in front of a Malfoy. _

“I apologize, Lady Malfoy,” Olivia said, her voice soft but steady. 

“Absolutely no need, my dear child,” Narcissa said, her tone kind. “Slytherin House has had many things to overcome these past few years. But I am hopeful it can be redeemed.”

Ben shifted in his chair, his eyes wide as he looked at Narcissa. “I don’t mind being in Slytherin,” he said. He cleared his throat and cut a glance at Granger. “But sometimes I wonder...if I should be there.”

“What do you mean, Ben?” Hermione watched her young charge with concern as he shrugged.

“My parents followed Voldemort,” he said, his hands twisting in his lap. “Is it really a good idea to put someone with that sort of lineage in a House like Slytherin? What if it’s inherited?”

Granger half-rose from her chair as she hugged the boy, pulling him into her side. She looked as if she was trying to find the words to comfort him, as she stroked his hair. Her mouth opened but Draco surprised even himself when he cut her off.

“That’s absolute hogwash.”

Narcissa pressed her hand into his forearm, her nails digging in slightly. He batted at her, trying to convey with his eyes that he meant no harm. She relaxed a bit, but didn’t speak. Draco turned his attention back to Ben, aware of Granger as she sat stone-still in the chair beside him.

“What I mean is, that isn’t how it works at all,” Draco said, his tone measured. “Even as a Slytherin, you have free will. There is nothing about the House that determines the Wizard.”

“But --” Draco held up a hand, forestalling the boy’s protests. He took a drink of his firewhiskey and sat it down, clearing his throat lightly. He hadn’t meant to discuss the War, or his own shortcomings.

“I come from a long, unbroken line of Slytherins. But the choices I made were my own.” He drug a nervous hand through his hair, his other hand clenched on the tabletop. “But I had housemates who also came from Slytherin legacy families who chose very different paths. Do you know of the Zabinis?”

“Blaise Zabini? The owner of Witch Weekly and the Falmouth Falcons?”

“The very same,” Draco said, smiling at the boy across from him. “He was in my year at Hogwarts, in Slytherin with me. We were friends since we were boys; the Malfoys and the Zabinis have been close for generations. But we grew apart at Hogwarts, mainly because he couldn’t stomach Voldemort.”

“But the Zabinis are an old Pureblood family!” Ben had leaned forward in his chair, his expression curious. Beside him, Granger watched silently. Draco swallowed convulsively, the memories threatening to break out of the careful boxes he had placed them in. 

“They are an old family, yes, and very traditional. But the difference was that the Zabinis are just plain, unashamed snobs. Their prejudice wasn’t based on blood-status; it was based on _ wealth _ ,” Draco chuckled, his eyes never leaving Ben’s face. “Voldemort’s followers were his servants. Blaise couldn’t be bothered to serve anyone, especially not an upstart like Riddle. What was his lineage? It was all too _ gauche _.”

Ben was watching him with wide eyes. “So he didn’t support the Dark Lord?”

“No, he did not. None of the Zabinis did. And there were others in Slytherin House who did the same,” Draco couldn’t help the edge of resentment in his voice as he thought about his housemates who had been lucky enough to be able to make that choice. But he wasn’t about to delve into _ that _ in this company.

“I didn’t realize…” Ben turned to look at Granger, his expression surprised. “I didn’t know there were Slytherins who didn’t fight for him.”

“Oh, Ben, darling,” she said, pulling him against her side. “I didn’t realize this was something you had been worrying about. I wish you would have told me.”

Ben nodded silently, and they could all see that he was turning what Draco had told him over in his mind. Narcissa reached over and wrapped her small hand around Draco’s larger one. She squeezed and he turned to her, caught in her watery gaze. He smiled sadly back at her and she sniffed, blinking back the tears until she was composed once again. 

The sound of the other children’s voices seemed to crash back into his consciousness as if the bubble had burst. Across the table from him, Ben and Olivia had been drawn into a conversation further down the table, though Ben still looked contemplative. Beside him, Granger was hauling the small boy, the one who had led Draco from the Floo chamber, into her lap. He curled his small body against her and rested his head on her chest. She carded her fingers through his curls as she watched Ben, her eyes tight with worry. Draco was struck suddenly by how much she loved these children, and how much they obviously loved her.

Draco fumbled with his glass and rose from his seat, stalking to the end of the room to pour himself another drink. He stood at the bar-cart, his hands shaking as he held the firewhiskey bottle. He sucked in a breath, filling his lungs. He never spoke about the War. It was too dangerous, there were too many things he kept locked away.

As he lifted the glass to his lips, he turned towards the table and was immediately caught by Granger’s gaze. She watched him over the top of the child’s head, her large brown eyes contemplative. They stared at each other for several breaths, Draco’s heart racing the whole while. After what felt like an eternity, her eyes softened slightly and she gave him a brief nod. He felt that small gesture of gratitude hit him like an explosion, rocking him back on his heels as she turned her attention away. He felt the loss like another blow.

Nothing about this place was what he expected.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of your continued interest in this story!! 
> 
> disclaimer: it all belongs to jk rowling.

Platform 9¾ hadn’t changed in any way, a fact about which Draco wasn’t sure how he felt. The hulking red steam engine of the Hogwart’s Express still belched great clouds of hissing steam, that filled the cavernous platform arches and tangled through the figures rushing towards the train. The sound of owls and children mingled with the shouts of the station-masters. It even smelled the same, like heat and smoke and anticipation.

Someone jostled into his shoulder as they pushed past and Draco sucked in a breath, feeling the panic begin to spiral deep in his chest. He stumbled to a halt, pressed a hand into the brick wall beside him as he tried desperately steady himself. Flashes of memory sparked behind his eyelids: a cluttered room, an empty train compartment, a wet floor, a dead bird. As he pushed the memories back into their boxes and filled his lungs, he wondered when this place stopped being the gateway to everything and became the beginning of the end.

After a moment, he straightened and dusted at his robes. Casting his gaze around, he noticed his mother and Susan fussing around Ben and Olivia, straightening robes and satchel straps and checking trunks. Granger stood several paces away, her eyes trained on the massive steam engine. 

As he drew closer, he began to notice the peculiar stiffness of her shoulders and the sharp, staccato movement of her chest. He stepped alongside her, his eyes sweeping over her petite frame.

“Granger.” His voice was a low rumble beneath the noise of the platform, not wanting to draw attention. She didn’t respond, her eyes wide as they jerkily took in the crowds and the train. Her breath was coming fast, as if she was struggling to fill her lungs. He recognized the familiar signs of a panic attack and faltered. Did the War still affect her?

“Granger, pull yourself together,” he hissed, his eyes flitting to the crowd flowing past them. They were both well known in the wizarding world, and he wasn’t sure if it was their status from the War that was drawing gazes or the fact that the two of them standing so close was unheard of. Whatever it was, she wouldn’t like it, especially if she broke down. “Granger, people are looking. Granger.  _ Hermione. _ ”

Her eyes swung towards them, her pupils dilated with anxiety. He reached out and pressed a hand to her lower back, hesitant at first but with more pressure when he was sure she wouldn’t push him away. He splayed his fingers wide, pressing the heel of his palm into her spine. After an agonizing moment, she sagged back against his hand, her breath stuttering as she attempted to fill her lungs. They stood there for several breaths, his hand a warm weight at the base of her spine.

After several moments, she shuddered gently and turned her face up to him. Her eyes were clear and there was a blush of colour across her freckled cheeks. 

“Thanks, Malfoy,” she whispered, wetting her lips nervously. “This place...it brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

He chuckled darkly, his eyes sweeping across the platform before settling back on her face. “That it does.”

She nodded, taking another deep breath before stepping forward and away from him. Draco flexed his now empty hand, feeling the loss of her weight against it. He trailed along behind her, his mind roiling with confusion and memories.

He stopped several paces behind as she went to hug Olivia, tugging the child against her. The girl pulled away to say goodbye to Susan and Narcissa, but she continued to cling to Granger’s hand. Both children were affectionate to the other two women, but their goodbyes to Granger were especially emotional. Olivia pressed her face into the older woman’s robes, her small frame shaking with nerves. Granger spoke to her softly, stroking her cheek and grinning. The girl returned the smile and Granger turned to Ben. The boy was visibly upset, his face twisted in an expression Draco recognized as Teenage Boy Trying Desperately Not To Cry. 

Draco wondered if he was still worrying over his lineage. Granger must have realized too, because she moved forward to hug him and block him from view with her body. Ben sagged against her for a moment, his arms wrapping around her as she whispered to him.

Draco felt himself growing emotional at this tender display and chastised himself. This was Granger. This was the woman who had made his life a living hell for weeks. He sneered, his gaze wandering until it caught Narcissa’s. She smiled knowingly at him and he grimaced.

The women bustled the children to the train and stood close by as Ben took Olivia’s hand and led her onto the car steps. They turned and waved, their young faces set in nervous anticipation as they disappeared into the train-car before reappearing at a window. Draco raised a hand in farewell, even though he knew they weren’t looking at him as they waved frantically from behind the glass. Their eyes were locked on Granger.

The steam-engine gave a piercing whistle and he watched as last-minute stragglers were hustled into the cars, and the platform was suddenly lined with waving parents and family. With a great lurch, the Hogwarts Express began to move away from the platform. Granger stepped back from the edge until she was standing beside Draco, her arm still extended as she watched the two small faces pressed to the glass recede from sight. When she let her arm drop to her side, Draco turned to her and watched her face for a moment.

“I’m curious,” he began, clearing his throat as she stilled beside him. “How did you learn to love the children of Death Eaters, Granger?”

She started, her eyes snapping to his face. She blinked up at him, her eyebrows raised practically into her curls.

“They are  _ children _ , Malfoy,” she said, her tone incredulous. “Nothing their parents did has ever had any bearing on how I feel about them.” She pushed her curls away from her face and let her gaze drift towards Narcissa where she stood beside Susan, several paces away. She took a deep breath before returning her eyes to his. “They are their own people, and their decisions and lives are also their own.” Pausing, she cocked her head, brown eyes intent on his. “It hasn’t been hard to love them.”

The breath was hot in his chest as he processed her words, his eyes blazing into hers. He felt each word as a blow and he struggled to keep his emotions from leaking onto his face. She watched him curiously for a moment, before turning with a smile towards Susan. Narcissa drew alongside Draco and took his arm, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Granger. He watched her the entire way back to the Apparition point until she disapparated with a  _ pop _ .

  
  


Xx

“Sorry I’m late, got held up at the Owl Post!”

Hermione slid inelegantly into the well-worn booth tucked into the back corner of the Leaky, huffing her curls out of her eyes as she shrugged off her coat. On the other side of the booth, Ginny and Pansy grinned at her over their pints. 

“No problem, Granger,” Pansy said, pushing a third pint glass across the scarred tabletop. “Have a drink.”

“Ta,” Hermione mumbled, taking a long pull from the glass. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and set the pint in front of her, feeling her shoulders relax. It had been a hectic day full of errands and it felt good to finally sit down.

Across the table, Ginny nudged Pansy and leaned forward, cupping her chin in her palm as she gave Hermione a toothy grin. “Pansy was just telling me about something interesting she heard this morning,” she teased, smirking as Hermione shot them a wary look.

“Something tells me I should be worried,” she quipped, settling back into the booth-seat.

“I ran into Millie at the market this morning,” Pansy said, drumming her manicured nails against the table as she watched Hermione. “She told me that Daphne Greengrass told her that she saw something surprising at Kings Cross yesterday when she and Theo were seeing off Cassius.”

Hermione quirked her eyebrow at her friends, fairly sure she knew what was coming. Ginny was vibrating with excitement beside Pansy, her grin growing ever wider.

“So come now, Granger,” Pansy wheedled. “Do tell us what Draco bloody Malfoy was doing accompanying you to the station?”

Before Hermione could answer, Ginny shot up in her seat. “She said he had his hand on your back!” she shrieked, her eyes wide with barely contained glee. Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “He was  _ touching you _ .”

“Really, Ginevra,” Pansy huffed. “I was working up to that. Sodding Gryffindors.”

Ginny batted at the dark-haired witch beside her, eyes never leaving Hermione’s face. “So spill, ‘Mione,” she demanded. “Tell us what the Ferret was doing there and why he had his hands all over you.”

“Oh for Merlin’s,” Hermione started, shifting anxiously in her seat. She levelled her best reprimanding stare at the two witches across from her and was gratified to see their slight flinches as they met her gaze. “First of all, we need to all stop calling him Ferret,” she said, wincing at the guilt in her voice. “It really was a terrible thing to do to a student.” Ginny rolled her eyes and flapped her hands to hurry her along. “He came with his mother, I’m sure Narcissa asked him to. It’s all part of the deal we’ve made, the one I told you about. He has to spend time with the children, get to know them.”

Pansy waved an elegant hand dismissively, her expression bored. “Yes, yes, we get that,” she drawled. “But that doesn’t explain why he was standing so close to you. Millie said that Daphne said that he was  _ practically on top of you _ .”

“You are both unrepentant gossips,” Hermione grumbled, sinking into her seat. When neither woman seemed to take the hint, she sighed and straightened, leaning her chin on her hand. “I had a panic attack, okay? I fucking flipped a switch, went totally rigid in the middle of the gods-damned crowd.”

Ginny had the courtesy to look a bit sorry, her eyes widening as she looked back at her friend with honest concern. “Oh ‘Mione..”

Pansy laid a quelling hand on the redhead’s arm and shook her head slightly. “What happened?”

Hermione sucked in a breath and shrugged. “He noticed,” she said. “He tried to get me to snap out of it, but I was too far gone. So he pressed his hand into the small of my back and just waited for me to come around. It was...nice.”

“Wow,” Ginny said, her eyes wide. “Who knew the Ferret had it in him?” She ignored Hermione’s quick glare as Pansy nodded sagely beside her.

“I think he was having a hard time too,” Hermione said, her voice soft.

“I’m sure he was,” Pansy agreed. “He gets them too, you know. Panic attacks. He would know firsthand how to calm you down.”

Hermione took an absentminded sip of her pint, her mind tracking back to the moment she had become aware of the warm weight at her lower back and his solid presence beside her. Had he understood what she was experiencing in that moment? Did the noise and the smoke and the crowds of kids in Hogwarts robes make the terror come swamping back for him too?

“What I want to know,” Ginny said, her voice cutting through Hermione’s thoughts. “Is when the two of you became comfortable enough with each other that he was able to physically comfort you.”

“I honestly have no idea, Gin,” she shrugged, her fingers tracing patterns into the condensation of her glass. “I didn’t realize we were until it happened.”

“Did you mind him touching you?” 

Pansy’s question was forthright, her stare piercing. Hermione answered without thinking. “No, I didn’t mind.”

Ginny sat up straight, her eyes wide and her grin wolfish. “Oh you didn’t, did you?”

“What I mean is -” Hermione let out a great sigh, knocking her head back onto the wall behind her. “Oh fuck it. I’m not even sure what I mean.”

Ginny reached across the table and took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “You’re attracted to him.” It wasn’t a question.

Hermione’s mouth opened to voice a forceful denial but the words caught in her throat. Was it true? Was she attracted to him? She had to admit that despite all of his problems, Draco Malfoy was a rather good-looking man. He was rangy and lean, with those sharp cheekbones and silken hair. There was a thunderous presence to him, that made her heart drop into her stomach when he swung his stormy gaze on her. 

_ Shit _ .

“Gods, Gin,” she blustered, her fingers spasming in the redhead’s grip. “Physical attraction is one thing; he’s still a terrible person.”

Pansy cleared her throat and arched an elegant eyebrow. “No,” she interjected. “He is not.”

Ginny scoffed, but Hermione blushed. “Okay, maybe not a terrible  _ person _ ,” she prevaricated. “But you can’t excuse his lifestyle, his actions.”

“No, I can’t,” Pansy agreed, taking a sip of her pint. “He’s a barely functioning alcoholic, I will give you that. He has a lot of growing up to do. A lot of soul-searching.” She seemed to be picking her words carefully, with great thought. “He isn’t a terrible person, he just makes terrible decisions. I’ve been on to him for years to get some responsibility, some stability. But he’s just...damaged.”

Hermione nodded, feeling her throat restrict. Why the thought of Draco Malfoy being damaged made her want to cry was beyond her reasoning.

Ginny gave a soft sigh, squeezing Hermione’s fingers before letting go. She tugged lightly at her sleek braid, twisting it in her fingers. “We’re all damaged, Parkinson,” she said, her eyes haunted. “None of us has the emotional capacity to fix anyone else.” She gave Hermione a pointed stare. “It is  _ not _ your responsibility to fix him, do you understand me, Hermione?”

“I know,” Hermione whispered.

Pansy took a long drink from her pint and then set it down forcefully on the table, the sound of the glass hitting the oak jarring them all out of their memories. “So I think the big question is, if Draco gets his shit together, then what?” 

Hermione shifted awkwardly in her seat. “What do you mean?”

“Is there a chance?”

She couldn’t pretend not to understand what Pansy meant, so she didn’t even try. She stared into her pint glass for a moment, seeing grey eyes behind a fringe of blonde hair looking back at her. Feeling long, elegant fingers stretched across her spine. The sound of his voice as he comforted Ben.

She shrugged, snapping her eyes up to Pansy’s waiting face. “There could be,” she said. “But he would have a lot to prove.” Ginny was wide-eyed and silent across the table as Pansy nodded. “Starting with the Home. If he won’t help those children, then he isn’t the man I think he could be.”

Pansy made a small sound in agreement. “Then we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> such a long break! but writer’s block hit hard for awhile. but now that there’s all this free time (STAY HOME Y’ALL), the muse seems to be back.
> 
> disclaimer: as always, I hold no ownership over the worlds of JK Rowling.

The overstuffed chair in Granger’s office was terrifically comfortable and Draco stretched his legs out as far as they would reach, leaning his head back with a sigh. Outside the large french doors, the late evening light was fading fast, casting the back garden beyond into deep shadow. Inside, the magicked sconces flickered merrily on the walls as he waited for Granger to return from putting the children to bed.

They had enjoyed a nice meal in the Home’s cosy dining room, Draco extending his mother’s regrets at being kept home by a head-cold. He was there to help Granger go over the gala guest-list that Narcissa had been pouring over. It had been decided that someone more familiar with Wizarding society should help her navigate the endless scrolls of names and professions. After dinner, she and Susan had disappeared with the children and Draco had made his way to her office.

He let his eyes roam over the overburdened bookshelves, smirking slightly at the stacks and stacks of tomes. Her desk was a mess of parchment and scrolls, a pair of heels left haphazardly next to her chair where she had most likely toed them off earlier in the day. He could picture her here, legs curled underneath her petite frame, head bowed over her desk and curtained by curls. 

The intimate daydream didn’t surprise him as much as it should. It was long past the time when Draco could deny that Granger, and by extension this place, had got under his skin. Working alongside her had become comfortable in a way he wasn’t sure he wanted to examine. Somewhere along the way he had shed his petulance and now found himself genuinely interested in the work. It was no surprise that Granger was methodical and precise, taking on the challenge of planning a large gala as if it were her NEWTS. What did surprise him was finding out that she wasn’t the cold bitch he had always assumed she would be.

It had been little things at first; her interactions with the children, the way she smiled at his mother. And the more he worked beside her, the more he realized that Hermione Granger was  _ warm _ . She treated him with a detached friendliness, but even that was more than he had expected from her. This entire situation, their deal and his knowledge that she would never get from him what she wanted had convinced him that working with her would be excruciating. He had expected recriminations and disdain; he got politeness and the occasional smile.

The door to the office opened softly and Granger slipped in, padding across the carpet to her desk. She had pulled her hair back from her face into a messy bun, and the sleeves of her crisp white shirt were unbuttoned and rolled to her elbows. As she sat, he caught a glimpse of an old set of scars on her left forearm. Swallowing convulsively, he looked away.

“Alright, Malfoy, let’s get to work,” she said, her voice light as she shuffled through a stack of parchment on her desk. “Your mother sent over the guest list earlier today and I would really appreciate your input. I hadn’t realized how out of touch with society I am since taking over the Home.” She laughed ruefully as she snagged a scroll from beneath a stack of paper and unrolled it with nimble fingers. “Not a lot of time for socializing with ten children to take charge of.”

He straightened in his chair, eyes widening slightly as the sconces brightened. Her casual use of non-verbal, wandless magic always took him by surprise. Let no wizard ever claim that Hermione Granger had lost her edge. “I can imagine,” he said. “I, on the other hand, have had this sort of thing beat into me since I was in nappies. Even a few years of drunken stupor hasn’t erased it from my mind.”

Her eyes came up to his face at his self-deprecation. She gave him a faint grin. “I have noticed that you’ve been a bit more...lucid,” she said softly.

He shrugged, his cheeks heating as he cleared his throat. “No time to drink when I’ve been on gala duty,” he mumbled.

Her eyes tracked his blush and she watched him for a moment before nodding perfunctorily and looking back down to the scroll. She traced down the list of names with a finger, her brow furrowing.

“So many names I don’t recognize,” she mumbled. “Though there are a few I know. Abbott, Cresswell, Flint, Greengrass.” Her finger stopped and she stared at the scroll for a few moments. “Robert and Penelope Greengrass, daughter Astoria Greengrass. Daphne must be listed with Theodore Nott...didn’t I read something about you and Astoria in the Prophet some time ago?”

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing he didn’t have to talk about this. “Astoria and I were thrown together by our parents after the War,” he said, his voice even. “There was talk of a marriage contract. But neither of us wanted it and when her parents realised the extent of my...problems after the War, they quickly broke it off.”

She made an apologetic noise, not looking up from the scroll. “That must have been difficult.”

He shrugged, rising slightly to look at the scroll from his vantage point. “It wasn’t,” he replied. “I didn’t want to marry her.”

“And Daphne married Theo,” she said, her finger tracking down the scroll to find the names. “You all were close, back in school?”

“As close as Slytherins could get, I suppose,” he said, quirking his head as he watched her. She still didn’t look at him. “Why are you so interested in the Greengrasses?”

She stilled, her hand hovering over the scroll. With a gentle sigh, she looked up at him through her lashes. “Didn’t you know?” She ran a hand through her curls, dropping back into her chair. “Henry and Marigold are Greengrasses.”

He was silent for a moment, his mind conjuring a picture of the two children. He had recognized something the first time he had seen them and now it made sense. They resembled their cousins.

“I’m not sure why I never made the connection,” he admitted, still watching her. “They look very much like Astoria and Daphne did as children. I assume you’ve tracked the familial connection?”

She nodded, her hands twisting in her lap. “They are second cousins.”

When all he gave her in reply was a nod, she flinched. He could see that something was making her nervous and he had to repress the urge to lean across the desk and place a calming hand on her arm.

“Do you,” she started, her voice catching in her throat. She steadied herself, plucking at her skirt. “Do you think they might want to meet them?”

Draco sat back, his gaze taking in her anxious features. “Astoria lives abroad, but I would hazard a guess that Daphne would want to meet them,” he said. “She and Theo have two children. Cassius is at Hogwarts but Vivi is about Marigold’s age, I think.”

She blinked at him, momentarily distracted. “They have a child old enough to be at Hogwarts?”

“The Ministry isn’t the only one who took in War orphans,” he said. 

“I had heard there were others,” she acknowledged, letting her gaze track back to the scroll. “Kingsley has mentioned there were children who didn’t end up in the orphanages. The Ministry keeps an eye on them.” 

“Cassius was the son of a Death Eater,” he said. “Matthew Rosier, a few years ahead of us at Hogwarts. Theo and I grew up with him, followed around after him like pups until he went off to school.” He drug his hand across his face, pushing back against the memories that threatened to flood through him. “When he was killed at the Battle of Hogwarts, his wife went barmy. Threw herself off a building. Theo didn’t want Cass to end up in an orphanage, so he took him in. When he married Daph, they adopted him.”

“Awfully noble of them,” Granger spat, her hands shaking where they held the parchment. Her shoulders were stiff and she had let her hair fall to block her face. 

Draco rose from his chair and leaned forward against the desk so that when he spoke his breath made her curls dance. “What’s got you all worked up, Granger?”

She sucked in a ragged breath, pushing her hair away and looking up at him. There were tears in her wide brown eyes, and as he watched, one escaped to track down her freckled cheek. 

“They are good people,” she whispered, her voice heavy with pain. 

Draco’s brows furrowed, confused by what could be making her shake with fear. It was disconcerting to see Hermione Granger like this; since the War, he had only ever imagined her blazing with a determined, stubborn energy. But here she was, trembling and overwrought.

“They are good people,” he mused. “But what does -- oh.” Realization sparked and he rocked back on his heels, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. “You think they will want to adopt the Greengrass kids.”

She wouldn’t look at him, but the colour had bloomed high on her cheeks. He was struck again by how much she loved the children in her charge, but he could see now that the two youngest meant more to her than he had ever realized.

“Look, Granger,” he began, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t think you need to worry. Like you said, they are good people.” He wanted to reach out and pat her shoulder but he kept his hands clenched at his sides. But then the tears had spilt over and she was swiping at her cheeks with trembling hands. He rounded the desk before he knew what he was doing, stopping beside her. He leaned back against the desk, one hand coming up to grip her upper arm. She stilled beneath his touch, her eyes jumping to his.

“When they realize how much you care for the children,” he said, his voice soft. His fingers spasmed lightly where they gripped her and he cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “Daph is a good sort. She has a big heart. She’ll understand.”

She stared up at him for a moment, her eyes wide. She was all soft skin and full lips, her tear-stained cheeks dusted with freckles and her hair wild. His hand came up and without thinking, he brushed a tear away with the pad of his thumb. She sucked in a sharp, surprised breath and he stilled, his hand frozen on her cheek. The moment dragged on interminably, both of them caught in the other’s gaze. Draco wondered how long they would have stood there, statue-still and wide-eyed, if a series of great, thumping sounds hadn’t jolted them from their daze.

Draco stepped back as if burned, his hand clenching at his side. She blinked up at him, her eyes refocusing on his face. Her blush bloomed hot against her cheeks and she looked away quickly, her eyes narrowing as she peered towards the door.

The faint sounds of laughter, punctuated by a few shrieks, filtered through the office door. She moved around her desk, walking over and opening the door slightly.

“It sounds as if the children have decided to abscond from their beds,” she said, her voice purposefully light.

Draco took a deep, grounding breath and stood away from the desk, straightening his shirt. He rolled his shoulders, determined to move forward as if that strange moment had never occurred.

“Jumping on their beds is more like it, from the sound of things,” he said, making his way towards Granger. “Are we sure that’s the children? Or did a herd of elephants somehow break-in when we weren’t looking.”

She shot a quick grin at him, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Oh no, that’s definitely the children,” she said, as she stepped out into the hall. “And they are definitely out of their beds. The noises are coming from over there.” She pointed down the hall, past the dining room and further into the depths of the house. As she began to pad down the carpet, Draco moved to follow.

They walked down the hall, the noises growing louder as they moved further into the back portion of the house. As they passed several closed doors, Draco stopped and moved closer to one.

“Granger, where does this one lead?”

She stopped, turning back towards him and moving to his side. “That goes to the kitchen,” she said, cocking her head as she listened. “And, apparently, the children.”

Draco smirked, his hand already turning the doorknob. “Let’s go see what they’re up to.”

Beyond the door was a short flight of stairs, ending in a pool of light from the room beyond. The sounds of laughter and excited shrieks were loud now, no longer dampened by the closed door. They could make out what sounded like chairs being pushed across stone, followed by squelching  _ thunks _ as unidentified objects hit hard surfaces. 

“The kitchen, you said Granger,” Draco whispered, his eyebrows in his hair. “Sounds to me like your little angels have started a food fight.”

Granger rolled her eyes, laughter teasing at the corners of her mouth. “Merlin help us,” she groaned quietly. “This happens about once a month.” She tried to force her expression into one of stern reprimand, but couldn’t help the grin that kept breaking through. Draco chuckled, his eyes bright.

“Come on then,” he said, turning away from her. “Might as well be the adults in the situation and end the fun.”

Draco made his way silently down the stairs, Granger at his heels. As his feet hit the stone flagstones on the kitchen, he took several steps into the open doorway and was stopped by the impact of something incredibly wet and incredible cold hitting his face.

The room went absolutely silent. Draco raised his hands, wiping at whatever was covering his face with all fingers until he had cleared his eyes enough to open them. Holding his hands in front of him, he saw the remnants of what looked like a rather nice cream pie smeared across his fingers. He let his tongue flick out and was gratified to learn that it was rather nice, tasting exactly like the house-elf made cream pies of his childhood.

“Oh! Mr. Malfoy, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you,” a shrill, childish voice broke the silence and Draco’s eyes tracked the room until it fell on the petite form of Marigold Greengrass. She stood on the kitchen table, her eyes huge in her small face. “I was actually aiming for Teddy.”

Draco blinked, his eyes darting to a slightly older boy who stood off to his left. The aforementioned Teddy was watching him warily as he backed slowly away. Draco sighed, wiping again at his face as he returned his gaze to Mari.

“I’m terribly sorry to have got in the way,” he deadpanned, his head snapping back when he heard an inelegant snort from behind him. He narrowed his eyes at Granger, who was doubled over with her hands on her thighs. She shook with silent laughter, her face contorted with mirth. When Draco sniffed loudly in distaste, her eyes rose to his and she struggled for a moment to keep a straight face. But it was in vain; she laughed out loud, her arms wrapping around her middle as she straightened.

“Oh Merlin, Malfoy,” she choked. “If you could just see yourself.”

He raised an arched eyebrow as he watched her dissolve into giggles. “I can only imagine,” he intoned. This set off a fresh wave of laughter from Granger and Draco straightened his shoulders with as much dignity as he could muster. He turned away from her and stalked towards the table where Mari was perched. The child backed away from him, her eyes wide as he closed the distance between them. 

As he reached the table, she let out a little shriek but quieted when Draco lifted another pie from the tabletop before spinning around to face Granger again. The other children chattered nervously, shifting around the kitchen as he began to move towards the curly-hair witch. 

It took her a moment to realize his intent, but suddenly she stilled. Her eyes went wide as they slid to pie he held in front of him. “Malfoy,” she barked. “Don’t you dare!” With a deafening shriek, she jumped away from him as he lunged for her, pie held aloft.

He caught her arm, dragging her towards him as she shrieked in protest. With a dramatic flourish, he pushed the pie into her face. She spluttered, wiping the confection from her eyes as she gaped up at him. He smirked down at her, his eyes bright with mirth. The room was silent once more as the children watched anxiously, unsure how she would react. With a wet chuckle, Granger rose on tip-toe and smeared a handful of cream filling through Draco’s hair. 

She darted behind the kitchen island, her laughter echoing off the flagstones. The sound of it acted as a starting pistol for the children, the food fight suddenly resuming with a loud outburst. Food was flying around Draco as he stalked towards Granger, his hand coming up to snatch a pastry from the air as it was launched towards him. Another pastry slammed into his shoulder, leaving a smear of jam on his shirt. He turned towards the direction it had come from and noticed Marigold giggling as she attempted to scuttle under the table. 

He dove towards her, snagging a slender ankle. Dragging her towards him, he threw her over his shoulder as he rounded on another child who was attempting to smear whipped cream down the back of his shirt. With a shout of triumph, he began to spin, sending Mari flying out behind him. They twirled in place, Mari’s shrieks of laughter echoing off the walls. Draco was laughing as he came to a wobbling stop, several children launching themselves at his legs. He pulled Mari over his shoulder, cradling her so that she wouldn’t hit the stones as he dropped to his knees. Suddenly he was in a dog-pile of children, their small bodies pushing him to the ground as he laughed harder than he had laughed in years. They all collapsed in a pile of giggles, Draco catching Granger watching them from across the kitchen with her lips turned up in a grin.

Suddenly the door into the upper hallway swung open and the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs made them all freeze. Susan came into view, framed by the open doorway. She skidded to a stop, her eyes wide as she took in the scene.

“What on earth is going on down here?” Her voice was loud in the deafening silence, punctuated by a few soft giggles from the pile of children.

“Malfoy and I were just checking on the children,” Granger said lightly, her mouth twitching as she looked back at her friend with an expression of extreme innocence.

Susan’s eyebrows rose, her eyes tracking between Granger and where Draco lay supine beneath a mountain of children. “Checking on them,” Susan said.

“Yes, checking on them,” Granger confirmed.

Susan let out a great, long-suffering sigh as she moved into the kitchen. “All right you lot, let Mr. Malfoy up,” she said, batting at the children as they jumped away from Draco. She reached a hand out and helped him stand. 

Draco dusted at his trousers and wiped at his face, sure there were still smears of cream in his hair. He stood as straight as he could, his eyes catching Granger’s as they listened to Susan admonish the children and send them up to their beds.

As the last child slipped up the stairs, Susan rounded on them. “And as for you two,” she said, her hands planted on her hips. “I don’t even know what to say. I hope you are both sufficiently ashamed.”

“Absolutely,” Granger agreed.

“Sufficiently,” Draco confirmed.

Susan rolled her eyes at them before turning to stomp back up the stairs. As Granger went to follow her, she threw an inconspicuous glance at Draco. A grin bloomed across her lips as her eyes crinkled with silent laughter. He grinned back at her, feeling lighter than he could ever remember feeling in his life.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: I claim no ownership over any of JK Rowling’s world.

The steaming tea was doing much to warm her freezing bones, but Hermione still couldn’t help shivering as Narcissa waved her wand in a complex warming charm. The well-appointed solar of Malfoy Manor gave beautiful views of the grounds and gardens, but the paned-glass walls and ceiling were woefully lacking in insulation. Thank Merlin for magic. The winter sun and Narcissa’s charm were bringing the temperature up to a much more comfortable level and Hermione made a conscious effort to release the tightness of clenched muscles.

Narcissa glided across the stone floor and folded herself into the settee across from Hermione, leaning forward to take her teacup as she smiled at the younger witch.

“The gala planning is coming along so nicely, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Hermione smiled over her teacup and took a sip, setting it on the saucer in her lap. “It is going well,” she said, her voice faltering slightly. “But to be honest, I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”

She was continuously surprised by how easy Narcissa made the entire planning process seem; the myriad of tiny details that would have overwhelmed Hermione were quickly taken care of by the older witch. Nothing was overlooked and even the most sceptical of her friends had to admit that Purebloods must have party-planning in their genes. 

If she focused hard on the planning process, Hermione could almost forget the reason they were throwing the gala in the first place. But then she would remember the looming sale and her heart would drop into her stomach. She wasn’t sleeping well, her nights plagued by nightmares of separating the children.

“Come, come, my dear,” Narcissa admonished gently. “You must have hope. The gala will raise the funds needed to secure a new building, I’m sure of it.”

“But at what cost?” Hermione couldn’t help the edge of hysteria that made it into her voice and she grimaced, clearing her throat. Her exhaustion was a lead weight pushing her into the overstuffed settee. “I can’t bring myself to choose which children to send away.”

Narcissa’s mouth twisted slightly and she sat quietly, watching Hermione with sad eyes. “Maybe something will happen, some miracle,” she mused, tapping a manicured nail on her teacup. “Something that will fix everything.” Her eyes narrowed at Hermione’s scoff and she raised an arched eyebrow. “You  _ must _ have hope, Hermione.”

“I know,” Hermione whispered, setting her teacup and saucer back onto the tray between them. “I know I do.” She sat back up and ran her hands down her thighs, smoothing her skirt. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

Narcissa nodded, a slow smile blooming across her lips. “How are you and Draco getting along these days? I’ve been very impressed with his efforts of late.”

Hermione couldn’t help a slight chuckle, though she wished Narcissa would have chosen anything else to talk about. But the older witch was nothing if not persistent. She had been pushing her son and Hermione together at every chance. Malfoy had been helpful, it was true, but he still hadn’t made any moves to help end the sale of the building. She had a sinking feeling that he had been right all along; he would fulfil his part of their bargain and then walk away without a backward glance.

“He’s been taking his role in the planning seriously,” she said, letting her eyes shift to the view of the gardens. “And he is wonderful with the children.” She tracked the path of a bird as it flew across the grey sky and over the treetops at the far edge of the gardens. When it disappeared from view, she returned her gaze to Narcissa. “I admit that I’m surprised.”

Narcissa nodded solemnly, her own eyes finding the view of green and grey outside the glass wall just as Hermione’s had. “Draco has the capacity for goodness and to lead a life worthy of respect,” she said, her voice measured. “But he has been crippled by trauma. And at such a formative age.” 

“None of us came out of the War unscathed, Narcissa,” Hermione said, her tone slightly reprimanding but her smile warm.

“That is the truth,” Narcissa agreed, her lips twisting as she set her teacup down. “But unlike many who came through the War, my son is buried in guilt. He might not recognize it or acknowledge it, but it is there.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say to that, so she just sat quietly as the older witch struggled to compose herself. She didn’t know what to think about Malfoy; in the last few weeks, he had proven himself to be reliable and fair as he helped with the gala planning. He treated Hermione and Susan with a wary respect and could be devastatingly funny and sarcastic when he wanted to be. Pushing down warm memories of Malfoy laughing on the floor of the kitchen, a gaggle of children piled on top of him, she had to admit that it had been easy to work with him. 

But hanging over everything was the building sale and the reason he was there in the first place. Their deal had sounded like the perfect chance to show him what he would be saving if he helped them. She had been so sure he couldn’t get to know the children and remain neutral to their suffering if the building sold. And she had been right: he created relationships with the children, with an easy grace and camaraderie that took her by surprise. But he was no closer to helping them block the sale, and that made her confused and hurt. Maybe Narcissa was wrong. Maybe he was heartless.

“Draco has been drinking less,” Narcissa said, her voice making Hermione jump. The older witch was watching her with an intensity that Hermione didn’t recognize. “The tremors are almost completely gone.”

“I had noticed that he seems to be doing better,” Hermione agreed.

Narcissa continued to watch her for a moment, her large grey-blue eyes lit with some unnamed emotion. She blinked slowly, her head cocking slightly as she smiled.

“I’ve wanted to ask you this for several weeks,” Narcissa mused. “Ever since I realized how well the two of you work together.” Hermione stiffened slightly in her chair, fairly sure she wasn’t going to like what the witch said next. “I wonder if you could ever see yourself helping him navigate this post-War life.”

Hermione felt her mouth drop open slightly and she snapped it shut. “I...I don’t know what you mean,” she stumbled.

Narcissa smiled gently, leaning slightly forward. “I mean, could you help him?”

Hermione ran a trembling hand through her curls. “Lady Malfoy...Narcissa,” she began, sucking in a breath. “I’m not equipped for that.” She waved a small hand, her expression frustrated. “I’m too worried about the future of the Home, of Ben and Olivia at Hogwarts, of trying to adopt Mari and Henry. Too worried about all of the children.”

“I understand,” Narcissa said comfortingly. “I’m not asking you to take him on like some project. I just wonder if the two of you might help each other.”

Hermione laughed, the sound bubbling up cruelly from her tight chest. “Oh, Narcissa,” she sighed, the words caught in her throat. She sucked in a ragged breath, acknowledging the flare of panic as it sparked in her chest. She choked, the laughter dying in the stillness of the solar. “How could I possibly do that when I can barely help myself.”

Xx

Hermione stuck her head around the doorjamb and couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. Harry sat hunched over his desk, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he scribbled away with his quill. She watched him for several moments, revelling in the comfortable  _ safeness _ she always felt in his presence. It hadn’t always been that way -- during the War, being near Harry meant being in a constant state of worry. Her brain had been consumed with ways to keep him out of harm's way, her intelligence and intuition in overdrive as she created plans and scenarios. 

But once the danger of War had subsided, the anxiety was replaced with a steady, abiding sense of familiarity and comfort. Harry was the closest thing she had to family these days. Her parents were still in Australia, their memories restored but the relationship strained. The Weasley’s would always be family, but Harry was...Harry. He was her brother, and she was forever thankful to have him in her life. Especially now that they weren’t running for their lives from dark wizards.

“Knock, knock,” she said, rapping her knuckles against the door. She grinned as he jumped, his glasses sliding down his nose. 

“Hermione! Come in,” he laughed, pushing his glasses back in place and half-rising from his chair. She kept grinning as she dropped into the chair in front of his desk, letting her bag slide from her shoulder until it hit the ground beside her.

“What are you doing here in the middle of the day? Everything alright at the Home?”

He watched her curiously, his green eyes sharp beneath dark brows. She grimaced, knowing he could see the tension in the lines of her shoulders and the smudges beneath her eyes. He quirked a brow and she sighed, waving a hand vaguely in front of her.

“How do you always know?”

He chuckled, sitting back in his chair. Holding up two fingers he grinned at her. “One, because you’re a sister to me and I know you better than you know yourself,” he laughed, his gaze warm as she flushed. “And two, because you wrinkle your nose and tug on your hair when you’re worried about something.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed, spreading her hands palm up on her lap. “Okay, you’ve got me,” she huffed. “But when was the last time I wasn’t worried about something.”

“Being responsible for the lives of ten children will do that to a witch,” he intoned, steepling his hands under his chin.

“Isn’t that the Gods-damned truth,” she groaned. She slumped down in her seat and let her head tip back onto the chair. Scrubbing at her eyes, she felt the exhaustion catch up with her and hang like a weight off her arms. “On top of this whole mess with the Home, the gala planning and somehow being inextricably entangled with the Malfoys, I’ve got a brand new problem.”

She peaked through her fingers at her best friend and found him watching her with an expression of concern. She sighed heavily, straightening in her seat. Reaching down into her bag, she pulled out two scrolls and tossed them across the desk.

“I received that this morning from McGonagall,” she spat, casting a malevolent glare at the innocuous paper. “The other followed soon after from the Ministry.”

Harry unrolled the scrolls and cast quick glances over both, his brow furrowed. As Hermione watched, his expression darkened. After a moment, his eyes snapped up to hers and she could see the tightness in his jaw.

“This is,” he paused, his fingers clenching at the edges of the scrolls until the paper creased. He stuttered for a moment, the words apparently stuck in his throat.

“Insane? Infuriating?” she supplied, her eyes wide as she watched him.

“Yes to both,” he grumbled. “What on earth does Pucey want with Ben?”

“That’s the million Galleon question, isn’t it,” she mused, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. “He’s petitioned the Ministry for visitation rights based on a blood connection. But why? And to what end?”

Harry’s eyes tracked back down the scrolls. “And they’ve granted it to him,” he said, his voice rough in the quiet office. “Why on earth would they do that?”

“Reading between the lines of Minerva’s letter, I would assume he is well connected,” she said.

Harry didn’t look up. “He works here in the Ministry, in the Minister’s office. He’s Pureblood, so I’m sure he’s related to a gaggle of highly placed bureaucrats.”

“They’ve notified Hogwarts that he is to be allowed access to Ben during weekends as long as he follows the visitor protocol of the school,” she said, her voice tight with worry. “Minerva doesn’t like it either, I can tell, but her hands are tied. It’s a direct order from the Department of Family Services and the War Orphan Office.”

“When is the first visit?” Harry’s eyes scanned the scroll, deep lines of worry carving through his brow.

“Next weekend,” she answered, her voice soft. “I’ve been told to stay away.”

His eyes snapped back up to hers and he set the scrolls down on the desk in front of him. Drumming his fingers against the wood of his desk, he watched her warily.

“‘Mione…,” he breathed. “I don’t like this.”

“You and me both, Harry,” she whispered. “But what can I do?”

He sat back in his chair, running a palm down his face. Hermione waited, her fingers clenching in her lap. 

“I can’t do much,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation. “But I can head down to the War Orphan Office and see if I can pull some strings to make sure the visitations are supervised.” He sighed heavily, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll bring out the whole War Hero schtick, see if we can’t get them at least attended by an Auror.”

Hermione nodded, knowing this was probably the best she could hope for right now. “I would appreciate that, Head Auror Potter,” she teased, her mouth turning up in a gentle smile. “It would make me feel a bit better about the entire thing.”

“Of course,” he said, waving her gratitude away. “Ben is a part of our family. Our weird, mismatched family.” He reached a hand across his desk, palm up.

She smiled fully then, lacing her fingers with his and squeezing gently. “Thank you, Harry,” she whispered.

He grinned at her but then it slipped, his expression sobering. “You know, you should talk to Malfoy about this,” he mused.

She blinked, unsure what he could possibly mean.

Harry shrugged. “He’s been known to run around with Pucey,” he said. “He might have some sort of insight into why the man is suddenly interested in his orphaned cousin six years after the War.”

Hermione let this information sink into her consciousness, feeling the confines of her chest tighten with worry. She let her eyes track up from their clasped hands until they met Harry’s gaze. “That’s a good idea,” she assented. “But I swear to Merlin, if I find out he has anything to do with this…” She paused, her fingers spasming in Harry’s grip. “He will wish he had ended up in Azkaban when I am through with him.”

xxxx

“A butterbeer, Malfoy? You must be joking.”

Pucey dropped heavily onto the stool beside Draco, his mouth twisted as he raised a hand to the barman.

“I’m cutting back,” Draco muttered, wrapping both hands around his pint. He watched impassively as the barman slid a glass of fire whiskey across the bar to Pucey. The other man took a long drink and set it down heavily on the scarred bar top.

“Why did you want to meet me if you aren’t going to drink?”

Draco shifted on his stool, rolling his shoulders to relieve the ache. He took a sip of his butterbeer and turned slightly towards his companion.

“Heard you’ve asked the Ministry for permission to visit that war orphan cousin of yours.”

Pucey guffawed, his thick shoulders shaking with mirth. “Heard about that, did you,” he chuckled. “And I wonder who you heard that bit of information from, hey Malfoy? I’d heard about your close association with the Mudblood Princess these days.”

Draco ignored that, his gaze never leaving Pucey’s florid face. “It’s true then?”

Pucey shrugged, taking another drink. “I’m just curious about the boy,” he said, his eyes shifting away from Draco. “It is a close blood connection and the fact that he’s being looked after by a Mudblood…” He shuddered, the stool rocking beneath him.

“You honestly can’t expect me to believe that you care anything about a thirteen-year-old child, Pucey,” Draco scoffed, his eyebrows disappearing into his blond hair.

“It’s not like I’m planning on adopting the kid,” Pucey laughed.

Draco regarded the other man for a moment, his expression blank. “What’s the endgame?”

Pucey shrugged. “It’s enough to know I’ve got the Mudblood worried,” he mused, watching Draco from the corner of his eyes. “She asked you to meet me, didn’t she?”

Draco waved this off, but didn’t deny it. “You know, I’ve had a chance to get to know the kids at the Home, doing all this work with my mother,” he said. “There are other Purebloods there, not just Ben. They are all well-adjusted and seem to be flourishing.”

Pucey was mid-drink when he choked at Draco’s words, slamming his glass onto the bar top. 

“There is absolutely no way any Pureblood child is flourishing under the care of a Mudblood,” he snarled.

Draco set his own pint glass down with more force than he intended, his brow furrowing in anger. He pushed down the sudden rage he felt towards the other man, but couldn’t help the edge that crept into his voice.

“You need to wake up, mate,” he admonished. “The war is over and we lost. It’s a new world out there,” he swung an arm towards the darkened windows that looked out onto Diagon Alley. “We need to adapt or get left behind.”

“I’m disappointed in you,  _ mate _ ,” Pucey retorted. “I thought out of anyone, you would be the one to stick to the old ways.”

“What did the old ways get me,” Draco spat, the agony seeping into his voice. “Death and loss, nothing but death and fucking loss. It made me realize how wrong we all were.” He drug a shaking hand through his hair as he stared into his pint glass. “How wrong I was.”

Pucey pushed his stool away from the bar and rose, his large body pressing against Draco’s side as he moved away. He threw a handful of coins onto the bar and glowered down at the blond man. 

“You should be careful, Malfoy,” he warned. “A Mudblood could get herself in trouble hanging out with the likes of you.”

Draco barked a laugh, not even bothering to look at the other man. “If you think a wizard like you would have any chance against Hermione Granger, you’re more of an idiot than I thought you were, Pucey,” he chuckled.

He was still laughing quietly as Pucey stormed out the door and into the night.

  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i own nothing from the world of Harry Potter.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the grass of the back garden. Draco stood hunched over a pile of children’s brooms, his brow furrowed in concentration when Mari came tumbling out of the French doors. She galloped across the garden, blonde curls bouncing as she skidded to a stop beside him. He glanced down at her and cocked his head. 

“This one, I think,” he mused, holding out a small broom. He stood it up on its end next to her, judging the length to her height. “This one should do nicely. Do you know how to hold it?”

Mari nodded vigorously, her eyes bright as she wrapped her small fingers around the broom handle. The small child was fairly trembling with excited energy and Draco had to suppress a grin as she shifted from foot to foot.

His visits to the Home had become regular over the past few weeks. What had begun as a chore to keep Granger off his back had become something of a respite. He could admit to himself that the routine was good for him. He hadn’t felt this lucid and energized in years.

“Set it on the ground beside you —  _ gently _ , Mari — and hold out your hand,” Draco chuckled as the expression on the girl’s face turned intensely serious as she glared down at the broom. “Loosen up! Roll your shoulders. The broom reacts to you and the more relaxed you are, the better the connection.”

Granger had asked him to come by and give the child some rudimentary flying lessons and he had been hesitant. The rapport he had created with the children was a source of both pleasure and worry. But there was something about the two small Greengrass children that made him want to run. He felt drawn to them in a way that couldn’t be explained by Pureblood kinship. Watching Marigold as she pulled her shoulders to her ears in an exaggerated roll, he felt something tighten in his chest. Pushing the feeling down as deep as it would go, he cleared his throat abruptly.

“You’ve got to tell it to come to you,” he barked, his voice harsher than he had meant it to be. He dragged a hand through his hair, sucking in a calming breath. Gentling his tone, he moved beside the girl. “Command it —  _ up! _ ”

“Up!” Mari shouted, her hand trembling in the air above the broom. The small practice broom shook where it lay, but did not rise. She huffed a breath and rolled her eyes up to Draco.

“Good! It reacted to your command,” he encouraged, his hand dropping to her shoulder. “Keep trying.”

As she continued to shout at the broom, Draco considered the small child beside him. Apparently Mari had been hounding Granger and Susan to be taught to fly. Neither women were strong fliers; he remembered how difficult flying had been for Granger at Hogwarts. At the time, he had been ecstatic to find something the Muggle-born witch wasn’t good at and had used the knowledge to tease her mercilessly. He felt a hot sting of shame as the thought opened up a line of memories that stretched on to the drawing-room of the Manor. He shook his head, trying to dispel them.

His relationship with Granger these days was...different. Like the Greengrass children, he didn’t want to examine his feelings too closely. They got along much better than he ever could have expected. She asked him for his opinion in regards to the Home and the children. She treated his mother with warmth and respect. She asked him to teach Mari to fly.

He had agreed because he hadn’t known how to tell her no, something that was becoming increasingly more frequent in his interactions with Granger.

Mari’s arm dropped to her side, her hand slapping against her hip with a sharp  _ crack _ . “I think that’s enough,” she clipped, her girlish voice a sharp contrast to the authority of her words and tone. 

Draco grinned down at her, laughter teasing at the corners of his mouth. “You did well, Mari,” he told her, leaning down to retrieve the broom. “This type of magical connection is new to you, and it wears you out if you're not used to it.” He handed the small broom to her. “It will get easier with practice.”

He strode towards the pile of brooms on the grass, Mari at his heels.

“But the broom didn’t rise up to my hand,” she complained, a small whine creeping into her voice.

“That’s not unheard of,” he said, beginning to gather up the other brooms. He smiled as she stooped to help him. “Some people have to work harder at it than others.”

“Like Hermione,” Mari said, her large eyes watching him.

“Yes,” he said, shifting the brooms in his grip. “Flying doesn’t come easily to Granger.”

They began to walk across the garden towards the shed against the back wall.

“Can I ask you something?” Mari rushed to match his long strides, stumbling a bit as the brooms in her arms slid in her grip.

Draco reached down and took a broom from her, his eyebrows raised. “I suppose so,” he said. “I can’t guarantee that I will answer.”

“Fair,” she said, standing beside him as he opened the shed door. “Did you know my parents?”

Draco stilled as he was hanging the brooms on the shed wall. He felt a frisson of unease slide down his spine. Turning towards the girl, he reached for the brooms in her arms.

“I met them once or twice,” he answered, his tone neutral. “At social functions.”

“At Death Eater gatherings?”

Draco had turned away to hang the last few brooms and he froze, his arm extended. Staring at the wall, he took a shuddering breath before laying the last broom in its spot. Slowly, he turned to regard Mari. She was watching him with a curious expression, her blonde curls falling forward to frame her small face. He couldn’t detect any disapprobation in her expression, but his heart tightened nonetheless.

“I can’t remember,” he said softly.

“Why did you want to become a Death Eater?”

He blinked back at her, his brain buzzing. She waited patiently for his answer and he sighed, gesturing her out of the shed. There was a stone bench tucked against the garden back wall and he led her to it. They sat down and Draco took another deep breath. How to explain this to such an inquisitive, dangerously aware child?

“Mari, there isn’t a clear answer to that question,” he began quietly, his hands twisting in his lap. “I was young. I had been raised to believe that the Dark Lord — Voldemort — was correct, that his ideology would bring about a new, perfect world. I wanted to impress my father.” He shivered, the memories sliding into focus behind his carefully constructed walls. “I was also afraid.”

“What were you scared of?” 

The question was so innocent, so simple. What had he been afraid of?

“Voldemort held so much power over us. He wanted me to become a Death Eater, and I knew that if I didn’t do as he wished, that he would hurt my parents.”

She nodded sagely, her bright curls bouncing in the sunlight. Her child’s mind could understand that, doing something because you wanted to protect someone you loved.

“Are you sorry for it?”

“I am,” he whispered, his eyes flitting towards the house.

“I knew you were,” she said firmly, her face tipped towards him. “You wouldn’t be here helping Hermione if you weren’t sorry.”

He laughed, the sound harsh in the stillness of the garden. “I’m helping Granger because I didn’t want to be harassed any longer.”

She grinned up at him, her eyes mischievous. “That might be how it started, but it’s long past that now,” she said with a shrug. “You’re helping now because you are sorry. And because you care about what happens to us. About Hermione.”

He stared down at her, his brows furrowed. Infuriating, observant child!

“I think you shouldn’t worry so much about things you don’t understand,” he admonished, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the bench.

“Why do adults always assume that children don’t understand serious things?” She huffed, her back stiffening. “It’s not a complex arithmancy equation!” She jumped to her feet and rounded on him, her small hands planted on her hips. “You do care! I know you do! If you didn’t, would you be here helping me learn to fly? Or helping plan the menu for the gala? Or helping the other kids with their course work? You  _ care, _ Draco Malfoy, and you are  _ sorry _ .” 

With an irate stamp of a small foot, she whirled away from him and marched towards the house, leaving Draco gaping after her. He watched her petite figure as it flounced across the grass until she slipped through the French doors and was lost to view. He blinked and felt the tightening around his heart again, so sharp that his hand splayed across his chest in response. 

xxxx

The firelight cast long shadows across the wide tiles of the Home’s sitting room. A low murmur of voices, punctuated by the occasional laugh, slid along the cream walls and caught in the heavy damask curtains. 

Hermione stood at the drinks cart, pouring a finger of firewhiskey into her glass. She turned and took a sip, her eyes warming as she watched the group arrayed across the settees.

Harry and Ginny were curled together at the end of a sofa, their drinks in hand as they talked animatedly with Pansy and Susan. Narcissa was perched in an armchair, Draco standing at her side, her blonde head cocked in mild amusement as she listened to something Ron said. 

Hermione swirled the amber liquid in her glass, feeling some of the permanent tension in her shoulders loosen. It had been a good idea to hold this planning meeting tonight — Susan had insisted that they needed to unwind a bit, her worried gaze intent on Hermione as she suggested it. 

They had finished with the administrative tasks first, Ginny and Pansy giving a quick rundown of the gala decor and Harry explaining his game plan of using his status as Chosen One to drum up support and donations. Ron was helping Narcissa with the menu, of all things, though she supposed it made sense — one always knew where to find Ronald Weasley at any sort of party and it was usually by the buffet table.

Draco had suggested that Harry, Hermione and Ron should make themselves available for questions and photographs during the event — even this long after the War, the public still held a sort of fascination with the Golden Trio. Hermione had wrinkled her nose at the suggestion, always hating the attention her war experiences had wrought.

_ Draco _ . Her eyes slid to his tall frame where it lounged against his mother’s armchair, a drink held loosely in one hand and a smirk plastered across his handsome face. She blinked at the glass in his hand, recognizing the milky consistency of Butterbeer.  _ So he still isn’t drinking. _ The thought made a warmth bloom deep in her chest.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the question Narcissa had posed in her solarium. As if she, damaged and still tender from the War, could ever help someone else process the things they had seen and experienced. It had been a rather presumptuous question, all things considered. She appreciated a mother’s need to protect and help her child, but she didn’t appreciate being asked to take on such a monumental responsibility on top of all the other things she was dealing with.

She took another gulp of her drink, draining the glass. Her relaxed mood was suddenly gone, replaced by a familiar sense of anxiety and dread. She lowered her glass, turning back to the drinks cart. As she fumbled at the bottle of firewhiskey, she felt someone come up behind her. An arm snaked around her and plucked a bottle of Butterbeer from the cart. Hermione stiffened, intensely aware of his presence beside her, the heat of his body so close along her side.

“This is a rather good party, Granger,” Draco said, his voice low at her shoulder.

She swallowed, not turning towards him as she nodded. He was quiet for a moment and she could feel his gaze on her face as he considered her. Why did he have to be so attractive? Why did he have to throw her emotions into a tailspin whenever he was near? He was detestable; a functioning alcoholic at the best of times, a sodden reprobate at the worst.

But as soon as the thought slid across her mind, she knew it wasn’t true. He had been so different from what she had expected. Every part of their tentative acquaintance had surprised her. His sarcastic wit and warm humour, the way he played with the children and teased Susan.

But the sale of the Home loomed large over everything. Why couldn’t he help them in the way they needed most? If he was improving his situation in life, if he was leaving behind his debauched lifestyle...why couldn’t he help them? It made her heart clench to think of him being so careless as to be able to walk away from the children after all of this was over. To walk away from her. And now all of this business with Ben...

Beside her, Draco still stood silently. After a moment he reached over and took the firewhiskey bottle from her hands, setting it down gently on the cart.

“Everything alright, Granger?”

She straightened, her spine rod-straight as she turned towards him slightly. She tried to smile, but it probably ended up being more of a grimace

“Everything is fine, Malfoy,” she said, her eyes sliding away from his. She let her gaze drift across the room, seeing that everyone was still chatting away pleasantly. A quick stab of  _ something _ ripped through her chest and she had to catch herself on the cart. Malfoy’s hand came up to grip her elbow, his head ducking towards her. He scanned her face with worried eyes.

“Granger —“

“I think I’ll just go check on the children,” she rushed out, pulling away from him. She forced herself to walk to the door and slipped out into the hallway, sucking in a deep breath as she padded down the carpeted floor.

xxxx

Draco set his Butterbeer down on the cart, his fingers clenching as he willed himself to not snatch up the bottle of firewhiskey and drain it in one deep pull. He waited a moment after Granger left the room and then slid out of the door after her. As he stepped into the dimly lit hallway, he caught a glimpse of her disappearing into the library door at the far end of the hall.

He stalked down the hallway, determined to corner her and demand to know what was wrong. They had been getting along so well, with only the slightest good-natured bickering. But her sudden reticence felt too much like their old animosity, and he had to admit that it hurt. He wanted to shake the answer out of her and then hold her. He could admit that much. Just to feel her in his arms for a moment, the small weight of her. It would be enough to sustain him, since he knew she wasn't for him.

As he turned into the open library door, he stopped on the threshold. Granger stood several paces in front of him, her eyes wide as she waved him quiet. Holding a finger to her lips, she gestured towards the worn leather sofa in the centre of the room.

Draco felt a warm affection slide into his chest, curling around his heart as he took in the sight of Mari and Henry Greengrass, their small bodies tangled together in sleep. A forgotten book lay open on the floor beneath Mari’s dangling arm, opened to a page covered in vibrant illustrations. 

“Help me get them to bed?” Granger whispered, her expression soft as she watched the children sleep.

Draco stepped forward and gently lifted Henry from his sister, cradling the boy for a moment before depositing him quietly into Granger’s outstretched arms. He turned back to the sofa and lifted Mari until she rested against his chest, motioning for Granger to lead the way.

He followed her through the silent halls of the Home, up the carpeted staircase and into a small, comfortable room under the back eaves of the house. It was papered in a vibrant pattern of foliage, with two iron beds set against the far wall. A soft wool carpet squished underfoot as they each deposited a sleeping child into a bed.

Draco stepped back to the door and watched silently as Granger leaned over Mari, brushing the curls from the small face and pressing a light kiss on her brow. She moved quietly to the other bed and tucked the blankets around Henry, tracing his cheek with a gentle finger. Draco felt his heart clench at the sight. It had been weeks since he had acknowledged how the witch had burrowed herself into his affections. If he was honest with himself, which he admittedly rarely was, his feelings toward her were more than mere affection. 

She stepped away from the beds and flicked her wand, extinguishing the lights. A small wizarding light sputtered alight on the bedside table, casting a gentle glow across the room. Granger stood silently, clasping her wand to her chest as she watched the two children sleep. Draco let his eyes travel from her unruly curls, to the curve of her cheek. A silent moment passed until he moved forward and touched a gentle hand to her shoulder. She jumped slightly and then turned towards him, her eyes overlarge in her heart-shaped face. He gestured towards the door and she nodded, shaking herself softly.

They moved into the hallway and Granger shut the door behind her with a gentle  _ click _ .

“Alright, Granger,” Draco whispered, his eyes intent on the witch as she leaned back against the closed door. “What’s got you acting like such a bitch tonight?” He grinned softly at her, his light tone belying the harshness of his words.

She stared back at him for a moment, and he felt his stomach drop with the worry that, despite his teasing demeanour, he had offended her.

“Did you know about Pucey’s interest in Ben?”

Her voice was rough with emotion, but clear and sharp in the silent hallway. She waited for his answer, her eyes never leaving his face.

Pushing a hand through his hair, he grimaced. “I told you all I knew about it,” he snapped. “Pucey seemed curious, but I never would have guessed that he would actually try to contact the boy.”

“What could he possibly be angling for?”

Her small hands were twisting together in front of her stomach, worry suffusing every part of her. It made him want to reach for her, and he had to actively clench his fists to keep from doing so. 

“I’m not sure,” he replied, keeping his voice light. “But Granger, Pucey is harmless. He’s all bluster and the most abrasive son of a bitch I’ve ever met, but it might be good for the kid to get to know a blood relative.”

“But will he try to influence Ben? Minerva is already writing that she is worried about Ben’s behaviour and it’s only been a handful of meetings.” She leaned her head back against the door, her eyes finding his in the dark of the hallway. “Apparently he’s gone rather surly and withdrawn.”

Draco chuckled. “He’s thirteen years old, Granger,” he laughed. “Take it from someone who knows all about being a boy that age -- it’s completely normal.” He waited for her to smile in response, but she just continued to stare up at him. He sighed, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder. “Ben is a smart kid, and visitations are supervised by an Auror. You don’t need to worry so much.”

Hermione glanced down to where his hand was wrapped around her upper arm, her eyes tracking back to his face. There was something in her gaze that made his breath catch.

“I don’t appreciate being asked by your mother to take you on like some sort of side project,” she whispered.

“I heard about that,” he chuckled, his eyes dancing. “I was fairly incensed when she told me. Even I know you wouldn’t have taken that well.”

One of her eyebrows slid towards her hair and she regarded him silently, waiting.

“Look, Granger,” he began, shifting slightly where he stood. He was very aware of how close they were, of how she watched him. “I think what she meant was that we work well together. Everyone has noticed. We make a good team... and you are a good influence on me.”

“I don’t have room in my life for that kind of work, Draco,” she breathed. “I --”

He held up a hand to forestall whatever it was she meant to say next. He felt a crazy momentum pushing him along, throwing caution to the wind. _What did he have to lose?_ He took a small step forward, gratified to see how her breath stuttered in her chest as he moved closer. 

“Would it really be work, Granger?” He let his eyes roam across her features, taking in the freckles scattered across her warm skin and the honey-gold flecks in her eyes. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel this between us.” His hand came up, waving in the space between them. Encompassing the threads of attraction stretched taut between their bodies. 

She sucked in a breath and blinked up at him. “I feel it,” she breathed, and he felt his heart somersault in his chest. “But I don’t want it.”

He growled, low in the back of his throat. Without thinking, he closed the distance between them, his hands coming up to grip her arms. She tipped her head back against the door, her eyes large and bright as she stared up into his face. He waited, giving her a chance to shake him off. But she stood still, waiting.

He pressed his lips against hers on a breath. Her hands came up to his chest, fingers digging tentatively into his shirt as he slanted his lips over and over against her mouth. Every nerve ending was on fire, his brain buzzing with the warmth of her breath against his skin, the feel of her pressed between his chest and the door. One hand slid up from her shoulder to her neck, until it cupped her jaw and his fingers splayed behind her ear. Her curls tickled the back of his hand, her mouth moving beneath his until all he could see or feel or taste was  _ her _ .

When she opened her mouth to him, he thought his heart would explode. Suddenly the kiss changed, from tooth-numbing sweetness to a roiling, blistering intensity. He pressed her against the door, every noise she made sending fireworks off behind his eyelids. Her tongue was in his mouth and he groaned, hips spasming against hers in a way that made his knees want to buckle. Her fingers were tangling in his hair and he bucked against her again, the feel of her stretched out against him like nothing he had ever experienced. 

One minute she was all boneless weight in his arms and the next she was rigid, pushing hard against his chest. He staggered back, the space between them widening like a gulf. They were both panting, and she looked wild. Her cheeks flushed, her hair a riotous halo, she held up a hand between them.

“Draco, we can’t --” she sucked in a ragged breath, her eyes rolling to his. “We  _ can’t. _ ”

He felt the sting of her rejection like a slap. The anger was suddenly bubbling up inside him, a volcanic rush spreading through each limb. It was so quick, so intense that it made his head swim. 

“We  _ can _ ,” he spat. “You just don’t want to.”

When she didn’t answer him, he felt his heart squeeze painfully. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away from her. He wasn’t sure if anything since the War had ever been as difficult.

  
  
  



	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: still don't own any of it, the world of Harry Potter belongs solely to JKR.

The rain was lashing against the glass of the french doors to Hermione’s office. Beyond the panes the world was an ominous grey, but in the cosy room a fire blazed merrily in the hearth. Hermione sat hunched over her desk, her fingers tracking across the papers strewn across the surface. She huffed a breath, pushing several wayward curls away from her face. She was rifling through a stack of scrolls when the interior door slammed open. The figure in the doorway was backlit by the hall lights, but she would have recognized him anywhere. She flinched as Harry stormed into the room, his face as thunderous as the clouds outside.

“Hermione Jean Granger, why haven’t you been answering my owls?” 

He was in full Head Auror mode, his voice a whip crack of authority and his eyes intense behind his glasses. “I have sent an owl a day for the last week and I’m starting to think you’re avoiding me.” 

He stalked across the room, falling gracelessly into one of the overstuffed chairs facing her desk.

Hermione straightened, dropping the scroll in her hand as she sighed. “I’m not avoiding you, Harry,” she stopped at his incredulous look and blushed. “Okay, maybe I was. A bit. I’ve just been so busy.”

His eyebrows arched into his dark hair, the look on his face heavy with disbelief. Swallowing thickly, she pointedly looked away from him as she steadied her breathing.

“‘Mione,” he admonished, his voice quiet. “Talk to me. How can I help if you won’t talk to me?”

Sudden tears threatened and she blinked them away. 

“Oh, Harry, everything has gone so wrong,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” She unfolded herself from her chair and moved to the doors, tracing a pattern with her finger on a pane. “The Home’s solicitors have been searching for a smaller building. I’ve been corresponding with the other orphanages, trying to find places for the children who won’t be coming with us. I still haven’t been able to decide who will go.”

She felt a twisting in her chest and her hand came up to clutch at her blouse. She stared out into the rain, feeling the pain as it swirled through her veins. A sudden warm weight on her shoulder made her glance back, meeting Harry’s eyes where he stood behind her. His hand was gripping her shoulder and his eyes were warm.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Hermione,” he said. “Why haven’t you let us help you?”

She tore her shoulder away from him and turned to the window, gulping in a quick breath. A mix of anger and despair swamped through her and she stared blindly out into the rain.

“What could you possibly do? There isn’t anything anyone can do,” she hissed, her breath fogging the window pane. “I have to decide which children to send away. And the children I wanted to be  _ mine _ …” She swiped angrily at her eyes and pushed back a choking sob as Harry stepped closer, his arm snaking around her shoulders as he pulled her against him.

“What’s happened?” He turned her towards him and pushed her tear-sodden curls away from her face, peering down at her with such an intense look of love and worry that it felt physically painful. 

“I’ve had word that my adoption petition will be denied,” she whispered. “Without a traditional family unit, the Ministry doesn’t feel that I would be a fit parent for Mari and Henry.”

He tugged her closer, pressing her against his chest and she breathed in his familiar, comforting scent. His hand rubbed soft circles against her back as she fought to steady her breathing. 

After an agonizing moment, he stepped away slightly and pulled her over to the chairs flanking her desk. Pushing her gently into one, he dragged the other closer and sank into it, leaning forward as he watched her.

“It seems a stupid question, I know,” he said, his mouth twisting. “But how are you coping?”

She barked a laugh, rubbing at her face. 

“Gods, Harry,” she choked. “Isn’t it fairly clear that I am barely hanging on? But I have to, for the children.”

He regarded her silently for a moment, his eyes bright with worry. Reaching his hand out, he caught her fingers in his and wove them together.

“‘’Mione,” he breathed, his brow furrowed. “You need someone to help you, to support you. Someone who understands you. As much as I wish Ron or I could be here for you, I think there’s someone else you should be leaning on. Where’s Malfoy?”

She stiffened, pulling her hand away from his and straightening in her chair.

Harry sat back, dragging a hand through his dark hair. He cocked his head as he watched her. “Don’t think that I didn’t notice how well the two of you worked together,” he said softly. “How you looked at each other.”

She stood up abruptly, moving back to the window. 

“You are good for each other,” Harry continued, his voice earnest. 

“Why does everyone think I should lean on Draco, take comfort from Draco, help Draco,” she snapped, her voice harsh in the still room. “When he can’t even help me keep the children together? Am I just supposed to overlook that?”

Harry was silent for a moment. The sound of the rain against the glass was a steady thread of sound, matching the rapid beat of her heart. 

“I’m not the only one who noticed how it was between the two of you, Hermione,” he said, his voice measured. “You were brighter than I’ve seen you in years when he was around. And Narcissa says the change in Draco was extraordinary.” He paused and Hermione could picture him rolling his shoulders like he always did when he was agitated. “You take on too much. You always do, and that’s fine...but you need someone to help hold you up under the weight of it. And Malfoy needs someone who believes in his abilities, who sees how he  _ could _ be and doesn’t immediately think the worst of him.”

She blinked into the darkness, her breath a hot drag in her throat. She heard Harry rise from his seat behind her.

“I think he was on his way to being who you need him to be, Hermione,” he said.

Her eyes squeezed shut, the pain spiking again. 

“We...acknowledged it, Harry,” she whispered. “It wouldn’t work.”

“Did you talk about it?” 

Her silence answered his question and he chuckled, the sound humourless. 

“Even if you did, I have a feeling neither of you would actually hear each other.”

Xxxx

The feel of her smooth thigh under his fingers should have sparked something inside of him. Combined with her breath at his throat, the way her nails dragged along his skin, it should have had him waving for the check so he could drag her from the pub and have his way with her. But instead, it seemed to hollow him out even more. He gulped in a breath and stiffened when her lips caught his Adam’s apple. She stilled and pulled away from him, her ice-blue eyes confused as she regarded him.

“Is something wrong?” Her voice was sultry in the din of the crowded pub, her eyes hooded as she traced his collar with a finger.

“I would prefer not to do this in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron,” he groused, picking up his firewhisky. Draining the glass, he revelled for a moment as the liquid seared down his throat. 

“You need to loosen up, Mr. Malfoy,” she purred, moving forward until her breasts were pressed against his chest. Her breath fanned out across his ear. “I’m going to the lady’s room to freshen up, why don’t you order another drink?”

She slid around him, making sure to drag her considerable assets along his side as she stood. As she moved off, Draco took another deep breath and rubbed his temples. This had been a mistake. He glared at his empty glass, gathering himself to get up and leave when a hand pressed lightly on his shoulder.

“Going somewhere, lover boy?” The voice made him roll his eyes as he slumped back into his chair.

“Pansy. What do you want?”

Pansy slid into the chair across from him, her black hair gleaming in the pub lights. 

“Ron and I are having a night out and I saw you from across the bar,” she shrugged, waving her fingers to someone over Draco’s shoulder. He glanced back and saw Weasley standing at the bar. 

“Wonderful,” Draco grumbled, his eyes darting back to Pansy. “Couldn’t you see I was busy?”

“Oh, I could definitely see,” she laughed, her grin not reaching her dark eyes. “I think the whole pub could see just how  _ busy _ you were. What do you think you are doing, Draco?”

“Just having some fun.”

“What would Granger think?”

He snorted. “What do I care what Granger thinks?”

Her look was so pointed that he suddenly wished he had more firewhisky in his glass.

“You are being an idiot, as usual,” she sighed, drumming her manicured fingernails against the scarred tabletop. She opened her mouth to continue but Draco cut her off.

“She didn’t want me, Pans.”

She blinked across the table at him for a moment. “Well, then you are both being idiots. Everyone can see how well the two of you fit together,” she waved an elegant hand towards the bar. “Even Ron can see it.”

Weasley dropped into the chair beside his wife, setting two glasses on the table. “What can I see?”

“How well Draco and Hermione are together,” Pansy answered, picking up her glass and taking a sip. Her eyes never left Draco.

Ron grunted, taking a swig of his pint. “It’s the truth, Malfoy,” he said. “As much as I hate to admit it, you’re good for Hermione. And she is obviously good for you.”

Draco felt a hot spike of anger as he glowered across the table. “You both need to mind your own business.”

Pansy reached for him, her long fingers snatching his hand where it rested on the table. He wanted to tug away from her grip but she held on, her eyes bright. 

“Draco, I love you, you know I do,” she whispered. Beside her, Ron grunted and she swatted at him with her free hand. “I know you have been hurting. But  _ this…” _ She waved her hand around her, encompassing the pub and his missing companion. “This isn’t how you heal that hurt.”

“It’s just a bloody date, Pans,” he grumbled, not able to look at her.

“You’re drinking again,” she said, her voice soft. “Does your date know about your history? Does she know what you have been through?”

“No,” he snapped, tugging his hand from her grip. “And that’s the bloody point.”

The look of disappointment that flowed over Pansy’s patrician face made his heart stutter. She watched him silently for a moment, her hands drawing back to clasp in her lap. 

“Incoming,” Ron whispered, his gaze locked on something behind Draco. He unfolded himself from the chair, catching Pansy’s elbow. “Come on, Pans. Let’s let him get back to his date.” The disdain in his voice made Draco inwardly flinch. Who knew Weasley’s opinion could mean anything to him?

Pansy rose gracefully from her chair, her eyes never leaving Draco’s face. She paused as she turned away, her hand touching lightly on her husband’s to stop him for a moment.

“You know, Draco, everyone says you are a coward,” she said, her voice so low that Draco had to strain to hear it. “I never believed it, because I  _ know _ you. I know what made you this way. But now, I think they may have been right.”

She turned away from him, letting Weasley lead her away to their table. Draco watched her go, the hollowness inside of him expanding until he was terrified that it would leave nothing left.

Xxxx

Draco rubbed his face with the heels of his palms as he leaned back into the overstuffed leather chair. The fire in the hearth crackled cheerfully, the glow of the flames flickering behind his fingers as he dug into his eye sockets with a groan. He would give anything for another drink, but Pansy’s disappointed face and another pair of wide, honey-coloured eyes wouldn’t let him. He cursed under his breath, letting his hands fall away as he glared up at the vaulted stone ceiling of the Manor’s lower drawing-room. 

He had abandoned his date, giving some half-hearted excuse and practically running from the pub. The night had been crisp and clear and he had walked through Diagon Alley instead of immediately Apparating, hoping the fresh air would clear his head. After pacing aimlessly through the streets for several hours he had given up with a groan and Apparated home. The fresh air had done nothing to help and his head was still a tangle of emotions and half-formed thoughts.

He had spent the past week in a haze of righteous indignation. How dare Granger contribute to whatever had been building between them over recent months and then stop everything in its tracks? He knew intellectually that there was too much history and hurt for anything involving the two of them to run smoothly, but her rejection was still a bruise to his pride. The sale of the Home still loomed over everything and he had been so stupid to think that they could just ignore it. Of course she couldn’t think of him romantically, when it was his cowardice that was causing everything.

But such logical arguments did nothing to stop the disappointment he felt when he remembered the way she had stiffened in his arms, the look on her face as she shoved him away from her. Or the feel of her body stretched against his, her soft lips and the way her fingers clung to his chest. It had felt right in ways that no other encounter with a woman had ever felt before. A better man would do anything to keep chasing that rightness; but he was not a better man.

The soft light in the drawing-room went suddenly, violently green and Draco sat up, his eyes darting to the fireplace. The flames were emerald as a small figure stumbled out, the light dimming until he could make out features.

“Mari? What the bloody hell are you doing here?” He rose halfway from his chair but froze when he registered the look of pure fury that had settled on the child’s face. 

“Draco Malfoy, you are  _ heartless _ !” Her voice rang out in the cavernous space, echoing off the stone walls and ceiling. She stamped a small foot, her fists clenched at her sides. “She has worked so hard to keep us all together, and they are going to make her give some of us away. As if we were toys or books or, or…”

Draco stood and approached the child, his movements slow and cautious as her voice rose into a shriek that died away on a sob.

“Mari, child, what is going on? Why are you here?”

“She is our mother,” the small girl sobbed, her voice wavering. “Even if we get adopted by someone else.”

Draco reached her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. When she didn’t move away from him, he guided her to the sofa and pressed her down until she sat. He perched beside her, his eyes tracking over her small frame.

“Now tell me, are you hurt? Is something wrong at the Home? Does Granger know that you are here?”

Mari sucked in a wet breath and levelled a glare at him. “I am here because Hermione is sad and it’s all your fault!”

Draco rocked back into the sofa, his eyes wide as he stared down at the irate child sitting beside him. Tears continued to track down her flushed cheeks, but her anger was pulsing now and he was becoming somewhat worried that her magic would start acting uncontrollably. 

“Twink,” he barked, his eyes darting to where a young house-elf popped into the air beside him. “Could you please travel to the Remus Lupin Home for War Orphans and inform Miss Granger that Marigold Greengrass is currently at Malfoy Manor? Tell her the Floo is open.”

The elf nodded emphatically and popped away. Draco turned his attention back to the child beside him. He folded his arms across his chest and levelled what he hoped was a stern look.

“Granger is probably beside herself with worry, Mari,” he admonished. “What on earth did you mean, coming here in the middle of the night all alone?”

She made a squeaking sound of indignation and slammed a small fist into the sofa cushion. “I told you. Hermione is sad --”

“Yes, yes, and it’s all my fault. So you said. That still doesn’t explain what you are doing here.”

“I heard Hermione and Uncle Harry talking,” she said, her eyes drifting away from him. “The sale is going through, nothing can stop it. And the Ministry won’t let Hermione adopt me and Henry.” 

Draco’s breath hitched and he felt his heart thud painfully in his chest, the thought of how much that news had hurt Granger making it physically hard to breathe.

“And you haven’t been there to help her,” Mari whispered.

“She has her friends,” he answered, his voice listless as he stared into the fire.

“They try to help, but they have their own lives. She needs a partner and we all thought it would be you.”

He laughed, the sound a harsh crack. “Why does everyone assume that I am the one she needs to help her? When I am the one who is causing a large portion of what hurts her?”

“We saw you with her,” Mari admonished, her voice thin with worry and hurt. “We saw how you were around her, how you looked at her. And how you are with the kids. With us.”

Draco drug a hand through his hair. He glanced at the child, and his gaze was caught by her anguished expression as she stared up at him.

“Don’t you like us, Draco? Don’t you want us?”

He felt the words like a kick to the chest, knocking all of the air from his lungs. He wanted to grab the girl into his arms and never let her go, protect her from anything that could ever want to harm her. But he just sat there and stared. Until the flames glowed green again, and Granger was stepping away from the hearth.

Her eyes were wild as she orientated herself within the room. Her curls were loose and tangled around her face and it looked like she had thrown a coat over her pyjamas. She took one look at Mari and made a strangled sound, before rushing to the girl and catching her up in her arms. Draco sat as still as a statue, his gaze drinking her in.

She was murmuring to the child, stroking her hair as they both cried. He shifted in his seat, preparing to push himself up when her head snapped up and their eyes met. Her hand raised palm out towards him, and he stilled.

“Stop. Don’t, Draco,” she choked. She trembled, her breath catching as she stared at him. “Thank you for sending your elf to fetch me, but please don’t come any closer.”

“Granger --”

“ _ No _ ,” she spat, her eyes narrowing. “No. You just need to stay away, Draco. These kids have experienced enough loss in their short lives and you are just another person who has decided to leave them behind.”

He sank back into his seat, her words echoing in the hollowness inside him. She blinked at him and took a step back. When he didn’t react, she stifled another sob and whirled towards the fireplace. She snatched a handful of Floo powder from the hanging basket and stepped into the flames.

“The Remus Lupin Home for War Orphans!”

And she was gone.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
